


Blackbird

by goldkirk



Series: Shutterbug [3]
Category: Batgirl (Comics), Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Red Robin (Comics), Robin (Comics)
Genre: ALL THESE KIDS NEED HUGS AND ARE GONNA GET THEM, AS USUAL I play fast and loose with canon, Adopted Sibling Relationship, BAMF Stephanie Brown, Batfamily (DCU), Batman: Contagion (DCU), Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Cancer, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, It's me so, Jewish Bruce Wayne, Jewish Tim Drake, Recovery, Tim Drake's Missing Spleen, Tim Drake-centric, Trauma, Warnings will be posted as necessary in chapter notes, but uhhhhhhhh MY version with ACCURATE SCIENCE and a completely different premise, emotional pain and then lots of comfort, gratuitous heapings of the author's hyperfixations, healthy found family, including but not limited to quantum mechanics service animals and epidemiology, none character deaths with left found family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-02-24 21:34:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 161,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22004809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldkirk/pseuds/goldkirk
Summary: Tim drake is settling into his new role as Robin, learning what it is to be part of a family, and slowly healing day by day. With the addition of Cass to the family, and then of Stephanie Brown as well, things go pretty well for a while for the Waynes, despite the new difficulties Tim, Cass, and Steph are all navigating with their respective parents. But in an international plot to take down Gotham city, a whole lot of Batdad taking care of traumatized kids, and a serious epidemic where no one is safe anymore, and it’s going to take everything the Batfam has if they're going to save Gotham this time.———In true Bruce fashion, Batman left Gotham for Paris on a simple “help Diana with a stolen artifact and meet a couple business clients as a cover” mission and somehow returned four days late with two cracked ribs, a box of authentic French fruit tarts, and awhole entire child following him off of the plane.
Relationships: The Batkids & Happiness
Series: Shutterbug [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1575793
Comments: 1768
Kudos: 1898





	1. had a voice but i could not sing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cass comes to stay. There are nightmares. There is hot chocolate. Ace is a Good Boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUESS WHO'S BACK, BACK AGAIN
> 
>  **Content Warning:** No actual described violence or abuse, but mentions of a nightmare wakeup that is emotionally distressing and requires someone being put in a safety hold. 
> 
> Chapter title is from "Bird Set Free" by Sia, and is in reference to both Cass and Tim in this chapter :)

In true Bruce fashion, Batman left Gotham for Paris on a simple “help Diana with a stolen artifact and meet a couple business clients as a cover” mission and somehow returned four days late with two cracked ribs, a box of authentic French fruit tarts, and a _whole entire child_ following him off of the plane. 

“Welcome home, Master Bruce,” Alfred says, calm as ever as he opens the car door for Bruce and the girl to climb in. 

“Hello, Alfred,” Bruce says, with a warm smile. “Beautiful morning. It sure is warming up fast this summer.”

“Quite,” says Alfred. He smiles at the girl, currently sliding into the backseat after Bruce. “And welcome to you as well, dear, I hope you found the trip agreeable.” 

She returns his smile with a small wave and doesn’t speak.

“This is Cassandra,” Bruce says, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll explain more when we’re in private. Cass has a severe language delay, of sorts. She doesn’t speak much, but she generally understands what people are saying. She’s she knows some sign language piecemeal, but we have time to talk about that later.”

“I see,” Alfred says. “Well. It’s quite a pleasure to meet you, Miss Cassandra. I look forward to getting to know you.”

Cass relaxes into the seat a bit, then, as Bruce checks that her buckle is secure. Alfred secures his own seat belt after climbing into the driver’s seat, and they pull away from the crowded airport and merge into traffic.

* * *

Bruce steps into the kitchen just in time to watch Tim go fully limp and drop face-first into his bowl of milk and Cheerios. 

“Oh dear lord,” Alfred sighs.

Tim’s head shoots up, flinging milk around the table and onto his shirt. He almost falls out of the chair from the force of his awakening, and there are a few cheerios scattered around his dripping face. He blinks, squints through his bangs for a moment, taking in the room, and-- 

“Bruce!” Tim exclaims, leaping up and knocking the chair over behind him as he runs for his foster father. “You’re back!”

Bruce catches him in a hug, ignoring the dampness that rapidly soaks his last remaining clean shirt from the trip. “Hey, Tim. I missed you.”

“Master Timothy was rather worried over your extended absence, these past few days,” Alfred says in his _you may be an adult now, but you’d better perk up and listen to me, young man_ tone. “With so little contact, we hoped nothing too serious happened to you.”

“No,” Bruce says, calmly, trying to infuse the word with as much solid surety as possible. He squeezes the back of Tim’s neck once. “Nothing bad. Just something I needed to get sorted.” 

Tim pulls back.

“What?” he asks, looking up at Bruce. Bruce takes one of the kitchen dish towels from Alfred, wipes what he can off of Tim’s face. Tim scrunches up his nose like a kitten.

“There’s someone I’d like you to meet,” Bruce says, stubbornly fighting to not laugh. He steps further into the room, reaches behind him to draw Cass forward, who until this moment has been so still and silent he’d almost forgotten she was with them. One hand on Tim’s shoulder, one on Cass’, the kids now both staring at each other with open curiosity. Tim is clearly a bit wary, racing through scenarios, reasons, questions, coming up empty with flashing signals of _more information needed_.

“Cass, this is Tim, my youngest. Tim, this is Cass,” Bruce says, smiling again as Cass waves and smiles at Tim, her eyes scrunching up until they’re nearly invisible. “She’s fifteen. She can’t speak many words yet, but she understands.”

Tim blinks for a second, taking this in. _Okay. Okay. Bruce brought home another kid. This is fine._ Unexpected, but fine; it’s not like Dick and Jason hadn’t warned him it would probably happen sooner rather than later. He’s kind of figured it would be a Gotham kid, not a French one, but whatever. He’d always wanted siblings when he was younger, and he’s not about to complain about a _sister_ suddenly popping into his life. If Bruce picked her, that’s good enough for Tim. 

“Hey Cass,” Tim says, and grins back. “Welcome to the family.” To his surprise, Cass ducks out from under Bruce’s hand and pulls Tim into a sharp hug. Tim squawks, eyes wide, arms flying out in shock before settling tentatively on Cass’s back. He’s making desperate eye contact with Bruce over Cass’s shoulder, while Bruce, the traitor, is shaking with suppressed laughter. 

_Help me,_ Tim’s eyes say.

 _Suck it up, you’re fine,_ says Bruce’s left eyebrow. 

Tim sticks out his tongue, like the mature 14-year-old he is, and hugs Cass back a little harder just to spite Bruce. 

Cass pulls away, eyes skimming Tim’s face. She reaches out one hand and taps Tim’s chest right in the center, twice. Turns to look at Bruce, raising her eyebrows and one hand. Tim thinks she’s doing a pretty admirable job of being a living question mark. 

“Brother,” Bruce says, already understanding. He raises his hand, thumb and fingers in an L-shape, touching the thumb to his forehead before moving the hand down to rest atop his other hand with fingers in the same position. “Brother,” he says again. 

Cass turns back to Tim. Taps his heart once, then imitates Bruce’s hand motions and shapes the word with her lips. Testing it out, trying to replicate it without sound. _Brother._

“Yeah,” Tim croaks out. “I’m--I’m your brother. And you’re my sister now, I guess. That’s pretty cool. I always wanted a sister.”

Cass beams. 

“B?” Tim asks, as Cass wraps one hand around his, fingers interlacing as gently as bunny ears against his fingers. 

“Later,” Bruce says, answering Tim’s wordless question. “Soon.”

“Okay, B,” Tim sighs. 

He’ll get his answers when Batman is good and ready. There’s no point in pushing right now. Alfred has managed to teach him that, at least. And in the meantime…

“Hey,” he says, meeting Cass’s eyes. “Want a tour of the manor? I’ll show you all the best parts.”

Cass nods, squeezing Tim’s hand once. 

“Let’s go.” Tim pulls her along beside him, heading out of the kitchen. Bruce can find them when he needs to.

“Tim,” Bruce calls, just as they’re about to round the doorframe. Tim stops, catching the wooden moulding with two fingertips, ducks his head back in at the last second. 

“Yeah?”

“She knows,” Bruce says calmly. “About our nightlife.”

“Oh.” Tim frowns. “Okay. Cool.” _Unexpected, but not unprecedented,_ he thinks. _I mean. I knew without anyone telling me. Maybe she saw Bruce. Or maybe he told her. Either way, Bruce trusts her with it and doesn’t seem bothered, so I’ll follow his lead for now. Oh god. Jason and Dick are going to lose their minds when I text them about this._

“So, adding the Batcave to the list, then,” he says to Cass. She smiles, waggles her eyebrows a couple of times. “Oh yeah,” Tim says, grinning back. “That’s where all the magic happens. Best part of the manor. You’ll love it.”

Cass takes a few steps on the balls of her feet, bouncing in her stride, tugs Tim’s hand twice. 

“What?” Tim asks. She tugs once more, sweeps her hand in a broad gesture aimed further down the hallway. “You want us to hurry it up?”

Cass nods. Her grin is just on the edge of cheeky this time, and Tim smiles back with teeth. 

“Run,” she says, softly, a little clipped, a little rough, but Tim understands. 

“Okay,” he says. “If that’s how you want to play this. Let’s go. Straight down this hallway, then a right, then a right again after two doorways. That’s our first stop.” He gives the direction with hand motions, hardly even realizing it. Cass nods sharply. Like a bird, almost. 

Tim holds up three fingers for the countdown.

“Three,” he says. Watches Cass’s eyes narrow. “Two.” Tim and Cass both tense up, coiled springs ready to turn kinetic. “One!”

Tim is fast, but Cass is off like a _shot_. 

She beats him by two full seconds, and all Tim can do is laugh while he catches his breath and throw her a solid high five. 

* * *

Over the course of that first week, Tim learns six things.

  1. Cass? Is _so_ badass. She’s been raised as an assassin, but she ran away a few years ago and has been drifting between countries ever since. She tries to use her training to keep people from being hurt, and she’s _very good at it_ \--”a girl after Bruce’s own heart,” as Alfred puts it. Bruce ran into her in Paris, trying to stop the same heist as he was, and couldn’t just _leave her there._ So some money, forged documents, and unusual communication efforts later, Cassandra Cain is now Cassandra Cain _Wayne_ , American citizen and newest Wayne heir, and Bruce is counting down the days until Vicki Vale somehow catches wind and raises hell, as usual.
  2. Cass is very, very much a morning person. Tim figures this one out the first day after she arrives, when he wakes up out of a deep sleep to Cass perched on his mattress staring him down while only the faintest hint of light is edging around his blackout curtains. That one earns Cass her first talk from Bruce about boundaries, personal differences, and Tim’s ever-increasing caffeine dependency. (And, to Tim’s delight, the resulting sympathy from Bruce after that scare earns him a whole extra hour of sleep past his usual alarm time. So, not a bad deal, in the end.) 
  3. Dick has _no_ concept of looking before he leaps in and hugs people, even when it involves assassin children with trigger reflexes. Even after nearly getting his shoulder dislocated the first time. Bless his _heart_. Jason is significantly wiser in that regard, but when it comes to pranks? Apparently Jason has decided the best way to include Cass is the sink-or-swim approach. She already knows how to short-sheet a bed, and do jump-scares (of course), and from this moment on no one in the manor is truly safe anymore except Alfred. It’s becoming common to hear Tim’s screams just ring out occasionally. And Bruce, the traitor, _laughs_.
  4. Cass is absolutely bonkers over dogs and cats. Ace has taken to following her nearly everywhere around the manor because he knows she’ll sneak him treats and give him scratches no matter what she’s doing. And Tim’s pretty sure that Bruce is about two days and one more puppy-dog-eyes incident away from buying her a kitten. Or three.
  5. Tim has been touched more in the past week than he thinks he has in like, his _entire life_ up to this point. Cass seems to get that he’s a little overwhelmed when she goes in for shoulder touches, arm taps, and all the other ways she communicates, because she often hesitates just a fraction at the same moment that he tenses during the approach. But she needs it, and according to Bruce and Dinah, he needs it too. “It’ll be good for you,” they say. “Try to communicate with touch more, like she’s teaching you,” they say. Well, that’s all well and good, but Tim can only take so much. Cass seems to get _that_ , too, because sometimes right when he thinks he’s going to claw his own skin off to keep from throwing historical artwork around, Cass stops. She never pushes him too far. 
  6. Unlike Tim, who feels like every single time he gets past one bundle of emotional issues, he near-instantly slams into another new mountain of different feelings he has to learn to climb over, Cass has a frightening level of self-control. Her mastery of her own emotions and actions rivals Batman. But her nightmares are _bad_. Jason-having-one-of-his-rare-meltdowns bad. Safety-hold bad. 



* * *

They don't happen every night, which is a small mercy. Tim doesn’t think any of them could take it if they did, most especially Cass. He doesn’t have any details of what she’s been through, but...he doesn’t really need them. What he can imagine is bad enough. Her panicked wake-ups fill in just enough gaps for Tim to be glad _his_ parents at least ignored him, for the most part. 

The first time Cass wakes up the house screaming, Tim rolls out of bed into a crouch before he even realizes what’s going on. There are shrieks ringing around corners and doorframes, desperate noises, female, and Tim’s half-awake still, bleary, scrambling, and, _what?_

 _“Cass,”_ he hears, Bruce’s deep voice, as footsteps sprint past his doorway. _Oh,_ Tim thinks. _Oh._

Tim throws his door open, kicking off one sock that was halfway down his foot and only slowing his movements, and Jason catches him by the shoulders before he can run after Bruce on pure instinct. 

“I know you’re his Robin, baby bird, but let B have some space for this one,” Jason says into Tim’s ear, both arms slipping around Tim’s chest. Tim blinks himself more awake, and there’s Dick, coming out of his own room now, more dressed and alert than either of them.

“Bruce knows what he’s doing,” Dick reassures them, even as Cass lets out what sound like hoarse sobs. Dying animal cries. 

“What’s wrong with her?” Tim asks, still slow and mentally dragging from sleep. “She’s--” He trails off, doesn’t know how to say what he’s trying to put into words. _She’s so calm. She’s like Batman. She’s Cass. But of course she’s hurt, how could she not be. It’s just--_

“She doesn’t have enough words, Tim, even in sign language,” Dick murmurs, slinging an arm around both Jason and Tim, all three brothers tangled up in touch. “She’s--I don’t think she’s ever been allowed to process what she’s been through. Being on the run by herself can’t have offered much safety or time. And without words, how can you describe more complicated concepts? Every memory would be like an interactive movie, right, if you have no words to describe the events with any distance or analysis. Just experiences, emotion. If it’s her mind’s only way to process what she’s been through, it’s going to try to roll her through the events until they’re finally accepted and integrated.”

“That’s...really fucking awful,” Jason hisses. 

_“That’s_ David Cain,” Dick says, darkly.

“Her dad?” Tim asks. 

Dick nods. “He didn’t need her happy. He just needed her to kill well and not argue.” Dick looks over at one of the light fixtures on the wall, brow furrowing. “Bruce and I did some research, digging up what little we could find from scattered records...it wasn’t pretty. I’m glad B found her. And I’m glad she got herself free.”

Tim shudders, and Jason squeezes him more tightly. 

* * *

When Alfred has joined their little tangle in the hall, and Cass has quieted enough that they can no longer hear her where they stand, Tim is finally released from Jason’s arms. He walks cautiously down to Cass’s doorway, unsure of what he’ll find, unsure if he wants to find it. 

When he does lean around the doorway, finally, what he finds is Bruce on the floor as far away from all the pieces of furniture as he can get, Cass wrapped up securely in a safety hold that Tim’s only experienced himself a few times over the past year and a half. Bruce is speaking nonstop in hushed tones, soothing and grounding Cass as best he can. 

Cass herself has her eyes tightly shut, and her skin is shiny with sweat and tears. She’s still panting in Bruce’s arms, but no longer struggling or trying to move. As Tim watches, Bruce slides his arms from where they currently rest until he’s hugging her more than holding her, one of his hands interlacing with hers after it takes a detour to brush some of Cass’s damp, sticky bangs off of her face. 

He says a few more things, finger-signs rapidly for a minute with one of Cass’s hands in his own. and Cass nods against his sternum. Bruce looks up at the gathered crowd in the doorway. 

“It’s all right,” Bruce says, tiredness filling every corner of his voice, but he smiles anyway. “She’s okay. You can come in.”

Alfred pauses in the doorway, while Tim, Dick, and Jason tentatively scoot further into the room.

“Shall I prepare the standard hot chocolate, Master Bruce?” Alfred asks, steady as ever, despite being in his pajamas and nightcap, with only fuzzy slippers to carry him on his way. 

“That would be perfect, Alfred,” Bruce says, gratefully. “And maybe some extra sprinkles for Cass, here, if it’s not too much trouble.”

Cass’s lips twitch into an almost-smile for a split second. 

“Not any trouble at all,” Afred says, and he starts down the hallway. “If anyone else has special requests, text me. I have my phone.”

“Thanks, Alfie,” Dick and Jason say together. 

Dick has settled shoulder-to-shoulder with Bruce--not quite leaning into him, but not fully supporting Bruce either. A give and take. Jason has perched himself criss-cross-applesauce by Bruce’s feet, running his fingers lightly around Cass’s toes while she twitches them after the occasional tickle. _He’s so gentle,_ Tim thinks. Jason’s always good with hurting, broken things. Wet honeybees in the garden, lost kittens, baby birds lost and alone. _Hope he doesn’t get kicked._

Tim seems to have lost his ability to speak, too focused on observing, cataloguing, filing away for reference. He’s never seen Bruce with a sibling who needed comforting the way Tim sometimes has. Dick doesn’t live at home anymore, and he’s pretty much got himself covered at this point. Jason isn’t quite as steady as Dick, but he’s still mostly got a handle on himself and his emotions. The few times Jason has been out of control or lashed out, Tim’s either been too upset himself to keep track of what was going on, or not around to see how Bruce handled Jason. 

So Tim settles a bit apart from the others, back against the bed’s fancy carved footboard, his knees pulled up tight under his chin. Watching.

Bruce is drawing a finger up and down Cass’s left hand now, in a slow pattern, and Tim realizes after a few repetitions that it’s timing for when to inhale and exhale. Cass is matching it perfectly, relaxing by fractions, catching her breath. Bruce is steady as a rock, holding himself and Cass upright, even while he must be exhausted too. There’s a small cut on his eyebrow trickling blood slowly. Tim’s gaze lingers on it for a few seconds too long, remembering the one time _he_ hit Bruce hard enough to draw blood too, a few months ago, the first time he wished he hadn’t gotten stronger and built up so much muscle and muscle memory. 

Tim’d been so horrified, it took Bruce nearly two weeks to get Tim to touch him voluntarily again. It’d taken weeks longer after _that_ for Tim to get over his fear that he’d end up hurting others in the family if he ever lashed out again. And even now, Tim rarely allows himself to release any of his frustration or overwhelming anger and fear when he’s upset. He slips out of the manor and goes prowling Gotham for photo ops that fit how he’s feeling, much more than he goes to seek out Bruce or one of the boys. He know it bothers Bruce, and he does feel bad about that. 

But it’s better than being like his parents. He can’t allow himself to hurt the people he loves. 

“Tim,” Bruce is saying, evenly, and Tim gets the sense that it’s not the first time his name has been said. 

“Huh?” he says, blinking at Bruce. _Smooth, Tim. Way to go._

Bruce’s eyes are locked on Tim’s. Tim feels like they see right through him, straight into his soul. Sometimes it’s infuriating, how clearly Bruce seems to _see_ all of them. Other times it’s a comfort. 

Like right now.

“Do you think you could go get Ace from my room? I told him to stay, because I didn’t want him hurt. But I think we could use him now, and he’ll be worried about us.”

And Tim didn’t realize until right that moment just how badly he was wishing he could get out. How much he needed to leave that room, and all the thoughts, and fears, and exhausted hurt that was permeating the air, suffocating him with every breath. 

“Yes,” he says, and Tim hesitates just a fraction of a second, torn between feeling like he needs to stay and support his family by being present and feeling like he needs to run for miles until he can’t feel his legs anymore and his airway is frozen like ice with how hard he’s gasping for air. Then he’s spinning on his toes and jogging out of the room, down the hall, pushing open Bruce’s door, and there’s _Ace_. Good old Ace, curled up on Bruce’s enormous mattress, but head up, alert, just waiting for someone to come in. 

“Good boy,” Tim murmurs, and he climbs up on the bed, reaching out to scratch behind Ace’s ears just how he likes best. “Good boy.” 

Ace whuffs once, then steps out of his down stay and right onto Tim’s lap, nearly knocking him over.

“Hey,” Tim breathes, in an almost-laugh. “Watch it. Ace! Stop! Hey!”

Ace, clearly deciding that this is for Tim’s own good, ignores Tim’s protests and bowls him over the rest of the way. Tim’s torso is flat on the bed as Ace settles firmly across Tim’s lap and abdomen, and Tim’s legs hang awkwardly in mid-air, not quite reaching the floor.

“Ace!” Tim groans. “No! We have to go see Bruce.”

Ace’s ears flick forward at that. 

“Yes,” Tim says, eagerly. Bingo. “Bruce. He sent me to get you. Come on, now. _Steh_.”

Ace hauls himself up, and Tim quickly rolls off the mattress onto his feet. He pats the side of his thigh three times. 

“Ace, _fuss.”_

Ace trots alongside Tim in a perfect heel back down the hallway to Cass’s room, and they slip in just behind Alfred who’s carrying a tray of what Tim knows is absolutely god-tier hot chocolate. Alfred makes it from scratch, real blocks of chocolate and cinnamon sticks and creamy whole milk. It’s almost too rich for Tim, who spent most of his years before the Waynes took him in drinking plain old Swiss Miss with water most of the time. Just like how he used to make Kraft mac and cheese. (Dick, after his first horrified experience watching Tim cook it, quickly put an end to that and converted Tim to the “butter and milk do, in fact, have a point and purpose” side.)

Bruce smiles as they come in. 

“Ace,” he says, and Ace perks up. Bruce has always been his favorite. “Come, boy. _Good_ dog!”

Alfred passes around the mugs, all topped with whipped cream. Cass opens her eyes to lick at the sprinkle-covered fluff on top of hers, and Dick somehow already has a cream mustache. 

Tim goes to settle back against the footboard again, but Bruce catches his eye and pats the floor on his side not currently being monopolized by his eldest. 

You sure? Tim’s face asks.

Do you need to ask, Bruce’s replies. 

Tim sighs. He scoots across the gap, careful not to spill his own hot chocolate, and as soon as he’s within reach, he finds himself being pulled closer into Bruce’s side. Alfred scoots an ottoman up behind Bruce’s back, finally giving him some support. Bruce relaxes just a bit, but he doesn’t move his arms from around Cass or Tim, or nudge Dick away. Ace settles down more firmly across Bruce and Cass’s legs, and Cass’s hand not currently occupied with the mug finds its way to Ace’s fur and starts to stroke, so gently. 

“Jason,” he says, low and warm. 

“Pops,” Jason replies, licking his upper lip. 

“Come on.”

“Looks like you’ve got no room left,” Jason points out. He doesn’t sound hurt, but...Tim has a lot of practice reading people, and Jason is definitely teetering. He wants in, but he feels like he should stay out. Like other people need Bruce more, or just were there first, and he shouldn’t ruin a good thing by stepping in. 

“Jason,” Tim says. “Come on.”

“Get over here, little wing,” Dick says, in a tone allowing no argument. He scoots his legs open wide and leans into Bruce’s shoulder a little. “There’s still room for a small one. Like old times.”

Jason snorts. Tim figures there’s an inside joke hidden in there that he isn’t privvy too, because Jason hasn’t been a small one for years. But it does the trick. Jason crawls over to Dick and nestles in his older brother’s embrace, joining him in leaning into Bruce’s side. Bruce kisses him once on his messy bangs, and Alfred turns on some of the classical music Cass has enjoyed listening to recently. 

Tim closes his eyes and leans more heavily into Bruce’s side. It’s still night, and he’s still tired, after pulling an all nighter for a case the day before. And right now, things are safe. And warm. And really, really good-tasting. 

There’ll be time to deal with any problems in the morning. For now, Bruce’s arm tugs Tim in a little more securely, and someone plucks the half-finished mug out of his hands where they’ve dropped to rest on his lap, and Tim has just enough awareness left to register a smaller hand than Bruce’s tap his heart once, _twice,_ before he’s off and dreaming. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not 100% sure how often I'll update this once the new year hits, but for now assume maybe...every other day? That will probably be doable. Yeah. And as usual, a lot of this was typed on my phone, so I'll edit whatever needs editing later.
> 
> DRINK SOMETHING, EAT SOMETHING EVEN IF IT'S JUST SMALL, TAKE YOUR MEDS, DON'T FORGET LIKE I DID TODAY, I hope you have a wonderful day and life treats you well!!! <3


	2. long after all the thunder and scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason is a good bro, Cass is a smart cookie, it's time for annual physicals (oh joy), sometimes memories hit you out of nowhere, and Tim gets some...unexpected news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I Cannot Leave This Story Alone so have another chapter, friends! Hope you enjoy it!
> 
> **CONTENT WARNING: mentions of past child abuse, some mild descriptions of past physical and emotional abuse that don't get graphic but are more than I usually do. Dissociative episode is hinted at but not described too vividly. Several mentions of needles/shots.**
> 
> Chapter title from "Disaster Hearts" by I Fight Dragons.

Tim is carefully imitating the woman in the video, motion by motion, expression by expression, so focused on what he’s doing that he doesn’t notice when Jason opens his door. 

Jason makes it all the way over to Tim’s bed before Tim spots him and startles so hard he nearly kicks the laptop onto the floor. 

“Jason,” Tim says, face pinched. He yanks the noise-canceling headphones off. “Sorry. Should’ve noticed you came in. I’ll work on it.”

“It’s fine,” Jason says. “You couldn’t hear. And you can work on it all you like, but peripheral vision only goes so far out to the side.”

“But my positioning--” 

“Could be better if this was patrol. But it’s  _ not _ . You’re at home, Tim, it’s okay to not be on alert all the time in your own bedroom.” Jason frowns, then. “Actually, if you start feeling like you  _ do  _ need to be, go talk to Bruce. It’s not healthy to be vigilant all the time without having any breaks. Believe me, I know.”

“Okay, Jay, fine,” Tim sighs. “Understood. What did you need?”

“Nuh-uh. First I want to know what you’re up to in here.” Jason leaps onto Tim’s bed, landing face-down and sending Tim bouncing (and scrambling to catch his laptop before it tumbles over the edge). Jason rolls over onto his side, propping his head on one hand. “Sign language?”

Tim scowls. Jason doesn’t miss how he tugs the laptop in more tightly. 

“I want to be able to understand Cass more,” Tim says. “ _ And _ help her learn more words. Bruce can’t be around all the time. But I’ve gotta know what I’m talking about before I can help her learn. And it--I  _ like _ ASL. It’s easier than...I just--sometimes--”

Tim flops backwards, landing on his pillow with a soft  _ whumph _ . 

“I talk to myself, sometimes, right,” Tim tries, starting over. It sounds like he’s having to bite every word out one at a time. “About. Stuff.  _ Things _ . Ugh.” Tim wiggles around until he can sort-of meet Jason’s eyes. “Sometimes I try to talk myself through what I’m feeling, or whatever. And for some reason, it’s easier to do it in sign language sometimes, I don’t know. Like, I’ll get stuck, I can’t  _ say _ something, but I can say it in sign language. Even though it’s broken. Even if I’m missing words. So I go Google more whenever that comes up, so I can say what I need to say. I know it’s kind of stupid--” 

_ “No,”  _ Jason says, finally interrupting, firm and sure. “No. Lo entiendo.” Jason pokes Tim in the back of the knee, and Tim nearly kicks him in the face and squawks out a half-laugh, half-cuss. “It’s code-switching, hermanito. I know I don’t speak in Spanish around you much, but I do it a lot around some of my old friends, and sometimes it’s just more natural for certain conversations. B says it can have to do with what you associate a language with, or which one you learned first, or how emotional or non-emotional it feels for you. ‘S why I write all my journals in Spanish, but hate writing essays in it.”

“You do it too?”

“Yeah. And if you’re around Dick when he’s got a fever, or feeling really sad and not hiding it for once, you might hear him talk to Bruce in some of the Romani he remembers from when he was little.”

“Oh.” Tim thinks on this for a minute. “So it’s easier to say things in sign language because my brain...isn’t as attached?”

Jason shrugs. “Or maybe because it feels  _ more  _ attached in ASL, more able to be honest and open. I don’t know buddy, I’m not you.”

“Huh.”

“Anyway,” Jason says, rolling backwards off the bed and landing lightly on his feet. “Bruce and Alfie decided that they’re gonna get all of our physicals done in one fell swoop since they’re already going to do Cass’s today. So we’re supposed to get our butts down to the cave where they can keep an eye on us and make sure we don’t skip town.” 

“What?” Tim frowns even as he lets Jason haul him off the bed and towards the door. “Why do we need them? They know our injuries, Alfred treats most of them himself.”

“Because we have to do them at some point this summer, and this is a good excuse?”

“Why?” 

“Because Cass--”

“No,” Tim interrupts, waving one hand dismissively. “I mean why do we need physicals again this year? You’re clearly fine. Bruce did one when I started as Robin, and that was only like, six months ago.”

Jason shoves Tim through the grandfather clock, frowning at the confusion clear on Tim’s face. “Yeah, we’re  _ probably  _ fine. But they need to check just in case. Ivy and Scarecrow like throwing all kinds of untested chemicals at us, and who knows if some of them have long-term effects. Plus, it’s important to make sure we’re staying in peak condition and don’t have anything going on that’ll lead to injuries. And  _ you’re  _ still growing a lot. Bones and hormones can do all kinds of weird things.”

“But…”

Jason sighs.

“Tim,” he asks. “Did you ever have regular checkups as a kid?”

“No? Mom and Dad said those are just an insurance scam for doctors to get more money.”

“I don’t know why I’m still surprised. Figures your parents wouldn’t be proactive about  _ that _ , either.”

“I’ve always been fine,” Tim protests, a little offended now. “I’m smart enough to know when I can or can’t handle something myself! If I needed to go to the doctor I did. I only broke my arm once.” 

“Yeah, and you were underweight when you came to live with us, because no one was making you eat a steady diet. That shit can have consequences. And if your spine starts to curve, or whatever, the earlier it gets caught, the earlier it can be kept from getting worse if you have a growth spurt.” 

Tim can’t really argue with any of that. He’s certainly been on the receiving end of talks (lectures) from both Alfred and Bruce about nutrition and calorie needs and  _ the foundation you set for your body during puberty affects your health for all adult years, Timothy, _ more than once.  _ Have to do more research on this one,  _ Tim thinks.  _ I guess I’ve got another thing to add to the list of stuff that mom and dad didn’t have the most correct views on.  _

“Come on,” Jason says, more cheerfully. He slings an arm around Tim. “Let’s head over to the medical bay and get comfy. We’re gonna be here for a while, Alfred is  _ thorough _ .”

Tim groans dramatically. 

“Don’t worry,” Jason says. “I brought our Switches down. We can play while we wait, and make Bruce twitch when we call out all the Pokemon names.” 

As it turns out,  _ Jason  _ plays Pokemon, and Tim watches Cass get her checkup done, trying to avoid his building nerves over his own. He takes the opportunity to watch Bruce sign with Cass, imitating all the ones he’s begun to recognize. Cass shoots him an amused look when she notices what he’s doing--she makes a talking motion with both her hands, slightly out of sync, and waggles her eyebrows at him behind Bruce’s back. Tim narrowly avoids snorting out loud. 

For the most part, things go smoothly. Cass sits on the main examination table in athletic shorts and a sports bra, calm and unflinching as Bruce and Alfred tag-team the usual checkup checklist. Heart, lungs, eyes, reflexes. Bruce actually laughs at the open shock on her face when he hits her knee with the rubber hammer and her leg kicks out with no warning. Cass’s eyes go  _ huge _ . 

“Reflex,” he explains, hopping up next to her on the table. Cass frowns, reaches out and mimes doing a brachial strike on Bruce. She looks at him with a question in her eyes.

“Not quite,” Bruce says. “Different.” He hands her the small hammer and rolls up his pants leg, pointing to the right spot on his own knee. She hesitates for a moment, then imitates his own strike from before, exactly where he indicated. Bruce’s leg jumps just like hers did, and Cass grins. 

_ “Re _ -flex,” she sounds out, slowly. Then signs,  _ more? _

“Yes,” Bruce says, knocking his fist twice in the air. “I’ll show you some later, okay?”

Cass nods. Shivers.

“Cold,” she says. 

Bruce smiles. “I can fix that.” While alfred does a blood draw, Bruce pulls a fleece blanket out of one of the top cabinets and drops it over Cass’s head like a cloak, earning a laugh from Cass and a  _ Master Bruce! _ from Alfred, who had only withdrawn the needle a half-second before Cass reached up to catch the blanket edge from where it covered her eyes. 

* * *

Cass makes Bruce stop and repeat a sign every now and then, when he uses one she hasn’t seen before. Like  _ photography _ .

“I know that one!” Tim blurts out, before he can catch himself, snapping upright out of his slouch against Jason and a cabinet. Jason almost drops the Switch.

Bruce turns around. 

“You want to field this one?” he asks Tim.

Tim runs over to the lockers and snatches out his older camera that he sometimes carries on patrol. He carries it over to Cass. 

“Here,” he says. “Bruce is saying that he and Alfred want to take photos of you. Um, your scars. So we can know what’s old and what’s new later on. Like this.” Tim yanks his own sleeve up and directs Cass to watch the camera screen while he aims the camera at one of his newest scars and snaps the shot. “Then we put them on the Batcomputer as records,” he says, pointing at where Bruce has helpfully pulled up some photos of his own (many,  _ many _ ) scars. 

“Mm,” Cass says. She holds her hand out for the camera, waits for Tim to place it in her palm. She cradles it gently, like she can tell it’s something precious to him.  _ Memories, _ she signs at Bruce. 

“Exactly,” says Bruce, with a small smile. 

Tim points to the screen, still displaying the picture of his scar. _ Photograph, _ he signs. Cass nods.  _ Photograph you? _ he asks. 

“Yes,” Cass says. She hands his camera back. Tries the sign out herself.  _ Photograph. _

Bruce holds up the camera they keep in the medical bay. “You sure?” he asks, one more time. 

_ Yes, _ Cass signs, nodding once, sharp and light like a bird.  _ Trust. _

“Okay,” Bruce says, before he signs  _ thank you _ and bites back the rising emotions that are being called up by that one small word. Taking in Cass has been...extremely different. Dick was so young, and didn’t know Bruce from Adam. Jason didn’t trust  _ anyone _ . And Tim has been so independent for so long, and let down by his parents enough times while they were around, that it’s been a long road to get to where he completely trusts Bruce to not hurt him. And even now, every so often, Bruce can see a switch flip for Tim, and see the wariness come right back. Not often, anymore, but sometimes there are just bad days. 

But Cass  _ sees  _ Bruce. She knows he’s tired before  _ he  _ does. She knows when he’s going to strike on patrol, and when he’s going to feint. She reads him like she knows his every thought, and she can see that his intentions are good. It’s why she came with him in the first place. She looked at Bruce after they fought together,  _ Bruce, _ who wanted nothing from her, who was just  _ worried _ , who carried gentleness in his bones under all the layers and layers of armor, and called him  _ safe _ . 

Bruce doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve that. But he does know he’s going to do everything he can to never betray her trust.

So they comb Cass’s body, head to toes, following her lead. She points out scars hidden in her hairline, mimes knife slashes or a gun shooting when they ask about a few particular wounds. 

“And here?” Alfred asks quietly, fingers ghosting just above a series of faint white lines, all nearly identical, millimeters apart. 

Cass frowns, and in a voice clearly imitating someone else, clearly something she heard enough times to pick up before she ever learned  _ hello _ , murmurs, “Two. For flinching.” 

Bruce closes his eyes. Has to set the camera down on the counter for a moment as he grips the surface, knuckles white. 

When he looks up, it’s Tim standing in front of Cass. He looks younger than Bruce usually is allowed to see him. His face is wavering between sympathetic hurt and something a bit like longing. 

“Cass,” Tim asks. “Can I give you a hug?”

Bruce glances over at Jason, who has set his game down to watch the scene like a hawk. Their eyes meet, neither of them daring to interrupt the moment with words. 

Cass smiles. She raises her hands, signs quickly at Tim:  _ little brother. _ Opens her arms. 

Tim steps up to the edge of the table, between her legs, and wraps his arms around Cass’s ribs. She hugs back, gently, like Tim is a baby animal in need of delicate handling so he won’t break. Cass turns her head enough to meet Bruce’s eyes. 

She smiles at him. Lifts one eyebrow. 

Bruce relaxes, smiles back. And just like that, the moment is changed into something warm and whole. Pain turned into something new. 

Having kids is a thousand times harder than Bruce ever imagined as a 20-something bringing home his first one,  _ especially _ kids as traumatized as the ones he seems destined to add into his life. But moments like  _ this _ , Bruce thinks, make all the hard parts  _ more _ than worth it. At the end of the day, if he accomplishes nothing in life besides helping his children learn that they can be safe, and enough, and fully loved, it will be enough. 

* * *

Jason’s physical goes off without a hitch, since he got his vaccine boosters the year before and his new scars were recorded each time he got cleared to go back on patrol after an injury, which were thankfully happening less with every year that passed. After one final warning from Alfred not to slack off on his macronutrient intake just because he’s 18 and starting college soon, since he might still have growing left to do, Jason hops off the table and cheerfully elbows Tim on his way back to where he left his Switch. 

“Your turn, bud,” he says. “Don’t worry, they don’t bite.”

Tim slugs Jason in the shoulder just because, and hops up on the examination table without a word. Cass gives him a little thumbs up from her perch on top of the balance beam, buried in one of Bruce’s hoodies. It’s hilariously large on her. 

Alfred and Bruce come back over to stand in front of Tim. He swallows, feeling suddenly like he’s on trial for something, but no one thought to tell him what.

“So,” Bruce starts. He’s got his hands stuck in his pockets, aiming for casual, and Tim’s not sure if it’s helping or just making things more awkward. “We finally got your old records pulled from the hospital system, and apparently your parents never made sure you got your booster shot during middle school for Tdap. Or the Meningitis vaccine. So we have to do those today. I picked them up from Leslie a couple weeks ago. Do you want to do them now or at the end?”

Tim doesn’t know. What’s the benefit to either option? It’s not like he’s got a lot of experience to draw from, here. 

“End,” Jason calls, not looking up from the Switch. “That way you can immediately go distract yourself if your shoulder is sore, instead of just sitting and being crabby about it the whole time.” 

“Okay. The end, then,” Tim tells Bruce. 

“Sounds good. And one other thing, before we get started, okay?” 

Tim catches himself kicking his heels a little too hard at the metal drawers under the table. He stills his legs and starts twisting his hoodie strings around instead. 

“I know you’re nervous—“

“I’m not,” Tim says fiercely. 

“I know you’re nervous,” Bruce repeats, giving Tim a Stern Look, which is, kind of adorable? A little bit? Because unless Bruce pulls out Batman, his Looks™ never really reach the level Tim got from his parents, so all in all, they’re kind of ineffective. But still. Tim appreciates the effort. “And there is nothing wrong with that,” Bruce goes on. “But if it would make you less stressed, we can have it be mainly just me or just Alfred doing your exam, so you don’t have to be tracking two people at once. Do you want to do that?”

“Uh,” says Tim, a little surprised. “I don’t...what makes either of you qualified, actually? Now that I think about it? You’re not doctors.” 

Bruce laughs. “No,” he tells Tim. “You’re right, we’re not MD’s. But Alfred was a highly trained combat medic for several years, and I went to medical school four three and a half years under an alias, and treated a lot of people while I was globetrotting. You can take that or leave it. But I’d hope that after how many times Alfred or I have treated you as Robin this year, you have at least a little faith in our abilities.” 

“Sorry,” says Tim, going a bit red. “I do. Promise. I’m just…”

“Nervous,” Bruce finishes for him, smiling gently. He puts a hand on Tim’s knee. “It’s okay.”

“It’s stupid though,” Tim says, looking down.

“Nope,” Bruce says firmly. “Nothing you feel is stupid. And you’re not stupid for feeling something. Try again.”

Tim sighs for a lot longer than is strictly necessary. 

“I wish that I wasn’t feeling nervous right now,” he grits out, “because I don’t feel like it’s productive. And I trust both of you. And it’s not like this is my first time or anything.”

“Kinda is, though,” Jason says, around the stylus he has stuck in his mouth. “Right? You never got regular checkups. And the thing before Robin was like, more of a fitness check than a checkup.”

“Jason,” Tim says. “Can you shut up, for like, one minute?”

Jason puts his hands up. “Just sayin’!”

“Jason,” Bruce says, mildly exasperated. “You have some good points, but let’s leave Tim alone for a bit, hm?”

Jason grumbles something inaudible, but doesn’t interrupt again.

“Would it help if I tell you what we’ll do?” Bruce asks Tim.

“I already saw with Cass and Jason.”

“Sure. But they weren’t you, and I know sometimes it feels a little different when it’s your turn for things to happen.”

Tim shrugs. Bruce has a point, as usual, but he doesn’t want to  _ admit  _ that to him. “Okay. It can’t hurt, I guess.” 

“All right,” Bruce says, pulling over one of the rolling stools. Like he’s in  _ Grey’s Anatomy  _ or something. “Alfred and I will start by checking your blood pressure, heart, and lungs. Nothing too bad. We’ll check your eyes and ears with the scopes after that, and then use the little hammer to make sure your reflexes are still fine. Sound fine so far?”

Tim nods, narrowly restraining himself from rolling his eyes. He’s not a kid. 

“Then we’ll give you a once over, just like we do after patrols. Make sure nothing looks off on any part of your body. One of us will feel your abdomen a little, check your spine to make sure it’s straight, and check a few lymph glands to make sure they’re not swollen. Still okay?”

“Yes,” Tim says. 

“Finally, it isn’t part of a normal physical, but since you’ve been Robin for a matter of months at this point, I want to give you a once-over and make sure the scars you’ve gotten are all healing okay. If you’ve got any we forgot to document before, we’ll just do that quickly. Then you get your two vaccines and you’re good to go.”

“Okay,” says Tim, glancing over to where Cass seems like she’s decided to take a nap on Dick’s vaulting table. 

“You want me or Alfred?” Bruce asks, making sure Tim is looking him in the eyes. 

“You,” Tim says quietly, after a few seconds. “If that’s okay.”

“Always,” Bruce says, softly. “Okay. Let’s do this.” He tugs on a fresh pair of gloves, and they begin. 

All in all, Tim muses, it’s not that bad. Boring, and maybe overkill, but not  _ bad _ . 

Bruce is really gentle, and Tim appreciates that he explains everything he’s doing. In  _ detail _ , too, most of the time, which is interesting. Tim’s a lot less annoyed about having something stuck into his ear if Bruce is simultaneously explaining the history of how scientists used optical physics to develop the scopes and modern fiber-optic surgical tools. 

When they get to the second-last part, that’s when they finally hit a hitch in the plan, though it’s no fault of Bruce’s. 

Bruce and Alfred have just finished giving Tim a visual once-over, checking for scoliosis, all that. Jason, finally bored, has perched himself on one of the nearby counters to bicker with Tim about which version of Super Smash Brothers has been most fun to play over the years. Then Bruce whistles, drawing a finger over a few spots along Tim’s spine, making Tim shiver and twist around, sending Bruce a confused look. 

“No wonder you were so hungry this spring, Tim,” Bruce says, grinning. “Your spine grew so fast recently that you’ve got stretch marks.”

“I do?”

“Take a look,” Bruce says, swinging one of the tall cabinets open so Tim can see himself in the long mirror tacked to the inside of the door. 

Tim takes a couple of steps closer and twists around over his shoulder, shuffling till he’s got a good view of his back, and then he freezes. There are marks scattered around his mid-back, up and down the center where his spine causes the skin to dip, and they’re lines, and they’re  _ purple _ . 

He doesn’t know why it feels like he can’t  _ breathe _ .

Bruce is frowning now. “Tim?” he asks, questioning, and Tim--

“It looks like someone hit me with a _ belt,” _ Tim says, hoarsely. He can’t look away. “Kids are gonna--someone’s going to  _ see _ , and they’re going to ask questions, and they’re going to try to take me away, Bruce, I don’t want them to--why--how did they  _ get there?” _ and Tim’s voice ends the sentence two octaves higher than it started. 

“Whoa, buddy, hey,” Bruce is saying, and there are hands on Tim’s elbows, pulling him away, lifting him up, and hey, look, he’s back on the table again. 

Bruce has one hand on Tim’s cheek, and there’s pressure on Tim’s thigh, but he can’t hear whatever Bruce’s mouth is saying because Tim is  _ thinking _ , he’s thinking back and back and back and how did he forget  _ this? _

Elementary school. He’s small. He knows, because he has the sense of only barely being tall enough to see over the top of his parents’ raised mattress. Doing  _ something _ , he doesn’t know what, and his mom is angry enough that she skips punishing him altogether and just tells him  _ he’s got to wait until his dad gets home _ . He’ll get punished then. Spending the whole day wondering, but also a little excited, because his dad had said he’d help Tim practice catch that night so he could be better on the playground. It can’t be too bad if he’s got that to look forward to. His dad’s always fun when he’s home, telling Tim about projects and grand adventures and taking him to unusual stores.

Tim’s dad came home, but they don’t play catch.

Tim remembers the mattress, even with his head, he remembers wondering why his dad was opening the closet, he remembers the belt--and wasn’t there something wrong with belts? Paddles or hands were one thing, but even so little he was pretty sure--

And he doesn’t remember getting hit. He doesn’t remember  _ after _ . But he remembers the waiting. And he remembers that the belt was  _ straight _ , his father bending it in half, the lines, the edge-on view of the sewn sides, hospital-sharp like his granddad always made his bed. He remembers the fear.

And hiding, so no one would see. Because after, they hugged him, and apologized, and they went out and got ice cream, as if that would fix things. It kind of did. But now, suddenly, Tim remembers for the first time in years, and maybe he’s making it up? Maybe it was just a nightmare he got mixed up with his memories. Or maybe--

It’s two hard taps to his chest and a palm on his forehead that finally snap him back into the land of sound and vision. He hadn’t realized his eyes were closed until just then. 

Tim is sitting on something warm and solid. He bets that it’s Bruce.  _ Hopes  _ that it’s Bruce. There are arms around his, holding them gently but tightly at his sides, and he really hopes he didn’t try to hit anybody in the past several seconds. Or minutes. Or however long it’s been since he freaked out over  _ nothing  _ in a mirror. 

Cass is right in front of him, just inches away from his nose. Her face is filling most of his field of vision. 

She looks upset. 

_ Brother _ , she signs. Her pointer fingers jab toward each other sharply, staccato.  _ Hurt _ . 

“I’m fine,” Tim says. His eyes are damp. That’s interesting.

“No,” Cass says.  _ Hurt _ . She taps one finger over his heart.

“Oh,” Tim says dully. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to say to that. 

“Can you hear me now, Tim?” And, yep, that’s Bruce’s voice behind his ear. 

“Yeah,” says Tim. “I’m sorry.” 

“You don’t have to apologize, Tim, you didn’t do anything wrong. None of these things are your fault.”

“Still.” 

“Would you like some water?” Alfred asks, with a glass that looks maybe like Heaven, if Heaven contains plastic freezie cubes and Gotham’s “jumped to #17 in the state water quality rankings!” tap water. Good old Alfred. 

“Please,” Tim says, and Jason butts his way into the cluster to drop a bamboo straw in the cup while Tim is taking it out of Alfred’s steady hands. 

“No spills,” Jason says quietly. “You don’t need to be cold and wet on top of everything else.”

Tim laughs, and it’s a little frantic, sure, but it’s there.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Bruce asks, once Tim has gotten down several good sips. 

“No,” Tim says immediately. “Yes. No. I--”

Bruce shifts Tim on his lap so he’s more leaning into a hug than being held upright. He makes an encouraging sound in the back of his throat. 

“It’s stupid,” Tim says. 

Cass scowls, snapping her fingers together before Jason can even open his mouth to protest. No.   
“It might feel like it is, to you,” Bruce says calmly. Tim notices he’s not picking a fight over Tim’s phrasing this time. “But I’d really like to hear about it anyway. Because maybe it isn’t. Sometimes it’s hard for you to see clearly when it’s your own life, right?”

Tim grumbles and takes another sip of water.

“I think my dad hit me with a belt,” Tim says finally, feeling ashamed even as he says it. “When I was little. I don’t know. I don’t remember very well. Might’ve made it up.”

“Pretty intense for a made-up imaginary scenario,” Jason says dryly. “I don’t think you’re faking it, Timbo.”

Tim closes his eyes and twists around to bury his face in Bruce as best he can. 

“Are you okay?” Bruce’s voice rumbles around his chest, against Tim’s ear.

“I don’t know,” Tim says honestly. He feel shaky, and upset. Mostly tired. Kind of numb. That part’s sort of nice, actually. Tim leans into it a little more. 

“Okay,” says Bruce. “That’s okay.” One of his hands comes up to rub the back of Tim’s neck, familiar and soothing. “I’m proud of you for telling us about it.”

Tim shrugs. “‘S’ok,” he mumbles. Another hand slips around his limp wrist. Jason’s, he thinks. Not big enough for Bruce, or wrinkled enough for Alfie. 

“B,” Jason says, and Tim thinks, I should care about that, that’s Jason’s worried-and-trying-to-hide-it tone. But he’s drifting a little too much, and as much as he loves Jason, he’s not ready to slot back into vivid sound and feelings and reality yet. He wants a little time.

“I know,” Bruce says. “It’s okay. We’ll keep an eye on it.”

“Shall I fetch Ace from the yard?” Alfred asks. 

Tim feels Bruce nod. “Take Cass with you. Ace will come for her faster than any of us.”

“Indeed,” Alfred says, a hint of a laugh in his voice. “We’ll be back shortly.”

Tim hears their footsteps quietly ascending the stairs. Bruce presses a kiss gently to Tim’s forehead that he can barely feel.

“I’m sorry your father hit you, Tim,” Bruce says, so quietly. “No parent should ever hit a child like that. You didn’t deserve it.”

Tim hums.   
“Do you want to lie down for a bit? We can wait to finish until you’re ready later. And we can talk about the stretch marks, too. They’re perfectly normal for teenagers to have, Tim, I promise no one is going to try to take you away for having them.”

“Okay,” Tim mumbles, meaning for everything.

Bruce gets it.

He tips over slowly, Tucking Tim up against his side, curled up how he prefers. Tim feels Jason squeeze up onto the table against his back, and Tim burrows his face into Bruce’s side a little harder. Someone, maybe both Bruce and Jason, tug Cass’s discarded blanket up over all of them. 

“It’s okay, Tim,” Jason says. “We’ve got you.”

“I know,” Tim says, still drifting some. But he’s able to smile. 

“I’m proud of you,” Bruce whispers, just for Tim to hear. “And I’m never going to let you go. You’re safe with us, no matter what your parents ever try to do.”

Tim wrestles one of his arms out from between himself and Bruce, reaches up and snakes it around Bruce’s neck. It’s the closest thing he can manage to a hug.

He knows. Bruce makes things okay. 

“It’s just a bad day,” Bruce reassures him, one last time as Tim hugs his neck. “Tomorrow is going to be better again.”

“Because we make it better,” Tim echoes, the phrases familiar and well-worn between them. “I know.”

* * *

And it is. 

Tim is under strict orders to bring the previous day’s events up with Dinah next time he sees her, and Bruce has already had a long talk with him last night. But the next day is pretty much normal. Tim feels fine.

He’s not sure he should, after remembering something he feels like he shouldn’t have been able to forget about in the first place. But he’s okay. And he’s okay for the next few days after that, too, while he and Cass practice signing new words together, and try out different types of music in Dick’s old CD player while he’s not home, and they  _ all  _ go out on patrol, and Tim saves Bruce from a gunman on his six one night. 

Bruce takes him for a milkshake after that one, as he usually does after particularly close calls. It’s  _ good _ . And Tim always gets a kick out of seeing the employees’ faces when Bruce tips every single one of them hundred dollar bills at some godforsaken hour of the morning.

“Tim,” Bruce says, the next morning at breakfast. He sounds unusually serious, and Tim looks up from his oatmeal with a frown.

“Bruce?”

“There’s something you need to know,” Bruce says, “although I wish I didn’t have to bring it up, especially now.”

“What?” Tim asks. “Now I’m a little nervous.”

“Your parents are coming back to Gotham.”

Tim blinks.  _ Well. Okay. I mean, they have once or twice since Bruce got custody of me. But it’s not like it’s ever been a big deal. They haven’t asked to-- _

“They want to see you,” Bruce says, voice carefully flat. 

Tim looks over at Cass, then Jason, both watching him like hawks now. “Oh. Are.” He clears his throat. “Are you sure?”

_ What a stupid question. Is Batman sure. Of course he’s sure, you dummy, but I mean...why now? _

“Unfortunately,” Bruce says, and somehow it sounds like he means it on multiple levels. “And while I normally would say you don’t have to meet with them if you don’t want to, I think this time…” he trails off. Shares an unreadable glance with Alfred. “I think you need to meet with them this time. Just for a little while.”

“Well,” Tim says after that, slumping back a little dramatically in the chair. (His  _ parents  _ are coming back to town. He thinks he’s afforded a little bit of theatrics, after all the times he’s been the perfect child over the years.) “I can’t argue with that, I guess. I’ll see them. I just hope I don’t regret it too much.” He sighs.

“Me too,” he thinks he hears Bruce mutter, and  _ that’s it, _ Tim thinks.  _ This is now Tomorrow Tim’s problem. Too heavy for breakfast when there’s good oatmeal to be enjoyed.  _

Today Tim has to find out if Cass likes electric violin music. Tomorrow will sort itself out when it comes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell I want my own dog really, REALLY badly????? Lol. (every. single. person. in my family. is allergic to animals with fur. except me. so I'm restricted to fish until i have my own place someday that allows pets, unless I get an ESA or service dog. god help me)
> 
> Stay hydrated, take your meds, be punk rock!!! I hope you're all doing wonderfully today! <3


	3. awake, awake, this is a dream state

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim meets with his parents, and it goes about as well as you'd expect. Tim gets a birthday surprise early, and Cass gets a kitten!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 I hope I did this part justice, y'all. And I hope you're all doing well today. You've got this.
> 
>  **CONTENT WARNING:** Discussion of serious illness. Mentions of past neglect. Dissociation. (but lots of hugging!)
> 
> Chapter title is from "Dream State" by Son Lux.

Two days later, Tim meets with his parents in his old house, and isn’t _this_ a trip down memory lane. The last time Tim was in this particular building, he was shoving himself through a window to get _out_.

* * *

When they pull to a stop in the enormous drive below the front doors, Bruce puts the car in park and turns around to look at Tim. 

“You sure you’re ready?” Bruce asks. “We can go back home at any time. You just say the word, and we’re out. If you’ve changed your mind, we can turn around now and I’ll call your parents to reschedule.”

Tim chews on the inside of his cheek. 

“No,” he says, quietly. “I’d rather get this over with. I don’t want to do this, but I want to know what’s going on already.”

Bruce looks pained. “You know if there’s any way I could get around the confidentiality—”

“I know,” Tim cuts Bruce off. He gives his foster father a tight smile. “I know, B. It’s okay. I’m not mad.” 

“Okay,” Bruce sighs. “I’m sorry they’re choosing to do it like this. But that offer stands, okay? The _second_ you’re done, we’ll walk. No matter what your parents say. They can’t keep you here any longer than you choose to stay.”

“Okay,” Tim says, and his voice doesn’t shake. “Let’s do this.”

Tim and Bruce pop their doors open and head up to the house. Bruce’s arm doesn’t leave Tim’s shoulders once the whole way there.

“Tim,” his father greets, standing from the couch as Tim walks through the doorway. Bruce gives Tim’s shoulder one last squeeze before the door shuts between them, and then Tim is on his own. He closes his eyes for a moment, reminds himself that Bruce is right there, listening to everything that they say through the gap under the door, and is ready to get them both out of here the second Tim cries uncle. 

Tim opens his eyes and forces a smile, looking at his parents for the first time. 

His father looks like he always does. Polished, tall, confident. Same old shiny brown shoes, button down, and side-combed salt-and-pepper hairstyle Tim remembers from before. 

His mother…

She looks like a _ghost_.

The greeting dies on Tim’s lips as he takes in the changes. Janet has never been large, but she’s always been _strong_. She’s supposed to be all wiry muscle and compact energy tied up under a faint, glowing tan when she comes home from a dig. But the woman in front of Tim looks like she hasn’t seen the sun in months. Her face is drawn, almost sallow. The bruises under her eyes rival Tim’s at his very worst. 

“Mom?” Tim whispers. He can’t seem to look away.

Jack clears his throat and shuffles his weight from foot to foot. 

“Sit down, Tim,” Jack says, as polite as Tim’s ever heard him. “We need to talk to you about something.”

“It’s good to see you, baby,” Janet says, as Tim’s knees automatically hit the back of one of the armchairs. 

He’s spent hundreds of hours in this chair over the course of his life. Evenings doing homework, days whiled away reading by a fire, hours and hours of playing _Animal Crossing_ and _Pokemon: Explorers of Sky_ and watching _The Partridge Family_ , a thousand days imagining some time when he’d be in the room with his parents just like this, all of them home at the same time. 

Baby. Janet just called him _baby_. Tim can’t remember the last time either of his parents ever called him a pet name. Maybe when he was a toddler? Every alarm in his head is going off now. 

There’s no way this is good news. Is his mom sick? Was she a prisoner for some reason? What’s going on? 

“We got the pictures of your art project that Bruce sent us,” his dad offers tentatively. “It was...nice to see your work. You really are talented.”

What is going _on?_

“We’re proud of you, Tim,” Janet says, and, oh god. Is she tearing up? 

“Just tell me,” Tim blurts. Janet’s eyes widen, and he can see his father’s hands tightening on his knees. _Too blunt._ But it’s too late to take it back. 

“Please,” Tim amends, voice cracking oh-so-slightly. “Whatever it is. Please just tell me. Mom?” he pleads. 

Janet opens her mouth, looking torn. Closes it again. She shakes her head as tears start to roll down her cheeks in earnest. 

“Dad?” Tim looks over to his father desperately. 

Jack takes a deep breath and straightens up a little, reaching out to take Janet’s hand in his. Tim’s not sure if it’s more for Jack’s comfort or for Janet’s. He’s not sure his father knows either. 

“Timothy,” Jack says, and then hesitates for a few seconds. Tim thinks he’s going to _actually_ rocket off into the astral plane if he has to wait _one more minute_. “Your mother has—your mother has cancer.”

And there it is. 

Tim’s world freeze-frames, he’s in _ice_ , when did Mr. Freeze get into the room? Where’s the Scarecrow? This has to be a setup, right? Fear gas. A trick. Tim is a million miles away, above the scene, and at the same time he can’t help hearing every word coming out of his father’s mouth in high definition. They echo around and around Tim’s brain like blasphemy in an old cathedral. 

“We caught it late,” Jack is saying. “She’s been on chemotherapy for a couple of months already, over in Paris, and then Boston, but…” 

He stops, shares a look with Janet. Squeezes her hand once. 

“It’s not working as well as they’d hoped,” Janet finishes, softly. Tim chokes out one tiny, ugly sound, like it wants to be a sob but got lost somewhere on the road between _the world is ending_ and _the entire ocean just hit me in the face_. 

Tim should be asking questions. Tim _has_ a million questions ,clamoring in his brain, clawing at his throat. _What kind of cancer? How bad is it? Is it like Ives’? How long will they be home? What does Tim need to do? Can he help? How will this affect his life? Is his mom going to die?_

His only mom? His _mom_ who taught him how to tie his shoes and make grilled cheese, and how to keep his chin held high in a room full of people bigger and louder than he is? _His_ mom? 

But only one question makes it out, and it’s right and wrong in every kind of way. Tim couldn’t stop it if he tried.

“How long have you known?” Tim asks quietly. His voice is calm, steady, a still pond. Robin’s voice. It’s everything that Tim Drake is not in this moment. 

“A little over three months,” Janet says. And—

And. 

Tim _can’t_. He can’t do this. 

“You knew for—for _three months?”_ Tim says, voice finally rising slightly. “You knew for three months? And you didn’t think to _let me know?”_

“Sweetheart—” Janet says, pain clear in her voice. She reaches a hand out across the gap, but Tim is on his feet now, ducking behind the chair, and he doesn’t even realize. His world is narrowing to his two parents and his breathing, the ice and lava flooding his skin. 

“No!” Tim snaps. “No, _Bruce_ calls me sweetheart! I’m Tim.”

Janet looks stricken, but she says nothing. Just nods once and pulls her hand back to settle in her lap, her damp eyes not leaving Tim’s face. 

“How bad?” Tim demands. His hands find the wings of the chair back, and he does not let them shake. He can’t. 

“The doctor thinks she has less than a year,” Jack offers, almost monotone. “It’s stomach cancer.”

 _Rare,_ Tim’s mind supplies. _Nearly always caught late, often fatal within months to a few years. Mom._

“You didn’t call?” He says, accusingly, hurt finally leaking into his tone. “When were you going to tell me?”

“We didn’t want to worry you,” Janet says. “You have your life here, Tim, we didn’t want to interfere in it.”

“You’re my _parents!”_ Tim shouts, surprising even himself with the ferocity of his outburst. He spins, stalking over to one of the shelves. “You’re _supposed_ to interfere! That’s your whole job! I get it, okay, that I haven’t deserved your attention most of the time, I know I’m not much more than an inconvenience on a checklist to you! But you’re my parents, and I _worry_ about you all the damn time when you’re gone! And now you’re—you’re _dying?_ And that’s _still_ not enough for you to take two minutes to call your son? _‘Hey champ, how’s it going? Just so you know, your mom has cancer, she’s maybe dying, but we’re taking care of it, talk to you in another year!’_ ” Tim’s heaving for breath now. “You couldn’t even _text?”_

“I’m sorry,” Janet says softly. She sounds like maybe she means it. 

But Tim doesn’t _care_. He’s just along for the ride at this point. Timothy Drake’s brain has left the chat, and Tim’s left running on red haze, and pounding fear, and years and years and _years_ of hurt.

 _“Sorry isn’t good enough,”_ Tim yells, and he hurls one of their carved African giraffe statues across the room with all his might. It shatters into wooden shards against the brick fireplace, and Tim stands still, arms at his sides, and he has lost _all_ control of his life now, apparently. 

Jack is standing up, then, face turning red, and Tim _knows_ that look, he knows how this ends; and for every step Jack takes towards Tim, Tim takes two back, until his back hits the wall and he realizes he’s got nowhere left to go. 

Jack’s mouth is moving, forming shapes that should probably mean something. There’s one strand of hair drooping across his forehead. Jack’s just a few feet away now, and Tim can’t move, he can’t hear, he’s just trying to fly away and away and away from this upside-down _mess_ as fast as he can.

And suddenly Bruce’s hand catches Jack’s arm, steady as a cliff against the crashing ocean. Tim can only stare.

Bruce is saying something now, guiding Jack back, depositing him on the couch. Jack and Janet both are trying to speak now, talking over each other, probably, but Bruce doesn’t even turn around. He walks directly over to Tim and crouches on his heels, scanning Tim’s face like he can read answers there no one else can see. 

Tim stares back, _gone_ and still there and hurt and numb all at once. 

Bruce brushes Tim’s bangs to the side, and his face settles into his calm Batman mask. Something inside Tim relaxes. 

Batman is here. _Batman_ is here, so things are going to be okay. 

Bruce picks him up like a child, balancing Tim against his hip, one arm under him like a seat and one arm secured around Tim’s back. And they’re sweeping out of the room, down the hall, out of the house that’s not empty anymore, it’s _worse_ , and Bruce sets Tim gently down in the backseat of the car. 

Tim blinks and loses some time, because the next thing he knows. Bruce is in the driver’s seat. They’re on the road linking the two manors, and Tim blinks again, and Wayne Manor is in sight. Bruce has the phone held to his ear. Tim can hear the rumble of the car now, the sound of air rushing past the exterior. 

“Dick,” Bruce says into the phone. “Put shoes on and come out to the car. I need you to hug your brother.”

If Tim weren’t shaking so hard, he’d have laughed. He tries to do some breathing exercises like Bruce and Dinah have taught him, but they’re not super helpful yet. He keeps trying anyway. 

It’s all he can do. 

Minutes, maybe hours later, the door opens, and there’s _Dick_ , sliding in, and Bruce waits till the door closes and then they’re driving again, somewhere, anywhere, it doesn’t matter. As long as it’s not back to that house. 

Dick takes one look, says “Oh, _Timmy.”_

Tim lets out a real, proper sob, then, and Dick wraps him up in a Sherpa blanket and his strong arms.

“Don’t let go,” Tim manages to choke out between violent sobs.

“Not a chance, baby bird,” Dick murmurs, and he holds on _tight_. 

* * *

At some point, when Tim is feeling marginally more human and significantly more dehydrated, he’s back in his right mind enough to register the massive pain in his lower ribcage The seatbelt buckle has been digging in right there for who knows how long while Dick has been holding him. Tim wiggles around a bit, slipping out of Dick’s arms enough to ease some of the pressure off.

He glances out the window as he blows his nose into one of the Kleenex Dick hands him. 

“Where are we going?” Tim asks, as he notes the rural landscape rolling past the car. 

“Surprise,” Bruce says. 

Tim snorts, a little too wetly. 

“Gross,” Dick mutters. Tim elbows him halfheartedly. 

“Can I get a hint?” Tim asks.

“Hm,” Bruce says. He’s silent for a moment, thinking. “You’re not going to have to _share_ quite as much, once today is over.”

“Bruce,” Tim says, sniffing a few times, just to get Dick to make a face. “What am I supposed to get out of _that?”_

“Just enjoy the surprise, kiddo,” Bruce says. He glances up, meeting Tim’s eyes for a moment in the rearview mirror. “Trust me.”

Tim huffs and thunks his forehead against the window, turning the hint over and over in his mind. As Dick rubs circles all over his shoulder blades and back, Tim admits that the hint _is_ a good distraction, which was probably Bruce’s point in giving it. 

His world still feels like it’s ending, but like, a few miles away now. Not quite falling out under his feet right this second. His family is holding back the storm. 

* * *

The surprise? Is a _dog_. 

A beautiful, soft, black and white dog, purebred border collie and _all Tim’s._

Tim drops to his butt on the grass when one of the ladies walks the dog over, and he’s got no words left. At all.

“Her name is Nova,” the woman says, smiling. 

Tim’s still puffy from all the crying. His clothes are sticky with sweat, his hair is curling like he got drenched with a bucket of water, and he probably looks like death warmed over at this point. He doesn’t care. _Nova_ doesn’t care, she just noses his neck gently, bumps his hands, puts a paw on his knee and _shoves_. 

Tim wheezes out a laugh as he lets himself be bowled over. Nova folds herself across him just like Ace does on bad days, and he wraps his arms lightly around her neck. 

Bruce crouches down next to Tim. He smiles at them, reaches out and scratches Nova behind the ears a few times.

“Good dog,” Bruce murmurs. 

_“Bruce,”_ Tim says, happy and confused and awed and overwhelmed all at once. “How? Why?”

“There’s only one Ace, and there were two of you,” Bruce says. “Well, three now, with Cass. Nova was going to be your birthday present in a couple of weeks. Ace is getting old, but I know how much he helps Jason and you when you need it. So shortly after you moved in, I contacted some trainers I used to know and asked if they’d train dogs for you and Jason. They finished about a month ago. I figured today trumped saving the surprise for your birthday.”

Tim closes his eyes and lets Nova’s weight press him down into the sun-warmed ground, feels her soft fur and light puffs of air brush against his ear.

“I love her,” he whispers.

“I’m glad,” Bruce says. “She can come home with us today. No point in leaving her here any longer.”

Tim kisses Nova once, lightly. 

“Who’s Jason’s dog?” Tim asks. He pushes at Nova for a few seconds until she lets him up, rearranging herself to lay across his lap instead. 

Bruce grins, then. He stands, exchanging a glance with Dick before turning towards where a few other dogs were playing across the wide yard. 

“Peanut!” Bruce calls, and Tim laughs. 

A beautiful, large German shepherd trots across the yard up to Bruce’s feet, panting quietly. 

“Hello, boy,” Bruce says lightly. “You remember me, don’t you. _Good_ boy. Good boy. _Yes.”_ He turns to Tim. “Tim,” Bruce says, one hand on Peanut’s collar. “Meet Peanut.”

“Oh my god,” Tim laughs, feeling a little bit lighter, just enough to breathe fully again. “Jason is going to _die.”_

* * *

Jason does _not_ die, but he does cry. Openly. 

Bruce calls him down from his room when they get home, and Jason slides down the bannister only to come to a dead stop when he catches sight of the dogs.

“What?” he asks, blankly. 

“It’s like he’s rebooting,” Tim whispers to Dick, Nova pressing up against his leg. 

“Just wait,” Dick whispers back, grin so wide it almost hurts to look at. 

“This is Nova,” Bruce says calmly, gesturing to her and Tim. “And this,” he says, patting the head of the dog Jason is now suddenly finding himself holding the leash of, “is peanut. Your new dog.”

“My new…” Jason kneels down in front of Peanut and bruce, strokes one of the dog’s ears tentatively. He looks up at Bruce, brow furrowed. “Are you serious?”

Bruce nods. 

“You’re serious? You’re really serious?” Jason repeats, starting to sound a little frantic.

“Yes, Jason, I’m serious,” Bruce reassures. He catches Jason’s face in his hands and stares him in the eyes. “Peanut is all for you. He’s your dog. I got him for you, and this is very, very real.” 

“B, I— _Dad,”_ Jason says, voice cracking at the very end, and then he’s crying for real. 

“Shhhh,” Bruce says, crouching down and tugging Jason into a hug while Peanut noses at Jason’s face gently. “Shhh. It’s okay. It’s all right, Jay, I know.” 

Once Jason’s calmed down, they head for the kitchen where Alfred is mixing teas and Cass has shoved aside the kitchen table so she has room to dance to her Lindsey Stirling playlist. 

(Cass _does_ like electronic violin music, as it turns out. She _loves it_. Tim’s hardly gotten her to listen to anything else _since_.)

Bruce opens the little cardboard box he’s carried in and nudges the kitten out towards Cass, who has frozen mid-spin. Her eyes are locked on the tiny kitten, only just old enough to leave its mother. She picks it up gently, like it’s fragile as a snowflake. 

Tim smiles as he watches her hold the kitten up to her face and gently boop its nose. The kitten sneezes, and Cass lights up. She looks to Bruce.

“For you,” Bruce says. He signs _cat_ , and _you_ , and _home_. 

Cass smiles. She holds the kitten close, stretching up on her tiptoes to kiss Bruce softly on the cheek. 

“Love,” she says, flashing the sign with her free hand, and Bruce is actually left speechless. 

Cass presses play on the music, and as the melody rings out once more, she cradles the kitten in both hands and flows around the tile floor in slow motion. Tim still hurts, deep, deep down, an ache like something has torn a gash right through the center of who he is, and the world is still shaky around the edges. He’s not okay. And today wasn’t okay. But Cass has a _kitten_. And Nova is here, warm and steady against his leg, and he has Bruce, he has _Batman_ , and today Batman came and saved him from his old life. Again. 

Just like he promised he would. _As many times as it takes._

Tim has to believe that it’s going to be enough. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am Wrung Out, friends. These fics are pouring themselves out of me like they just...need to be told, and it's an amazing feeling, but oh my god. The roller coaster. I can't wait to bring Steph in next chapter, because she's going to be a breath of fresh air and a new story arc. 
> 
> Thank you so much for sticking with me and this story! Please drink some water, eat if you haven't recently, and take any meds you need! Be gentle with your body today. It's doing its very best.


	4. carrying my heart, but it’s made of stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim should have realized there would be fallout. But it’s going to be okay, eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick notes! Steph will be introduced at the start of the next chapter, because this one was getting WAY too long. And I’ve added five chapters to the chapter total for this story, because I’ve realized I have so much story to tell that there’s no way I can wrap up Cass, Tim, AND Steph’s arcs in just 10 chapters. 
> 
> **CONTENT WARNING:** major emotional content this chapter, logic patterns from past child abuse, some verbal and physical aggression. 
> 
> Chapter title is from “Made of Stone” by Matt Corby.

Once Jason decides to take Peanut for a walk outside, Tim finally crashes in his room for a nap. He curls up on top of his duvet without even kicking off his shoes, numb and ready to not exist for a while until things are a little bit more settled into place. Nova presses up against his back like a personal space heater. 

He almost sleeps through dinner, except that Cass comes and pokes him in the cheek at just infrequent enough intervals that Tim can’t keep from waking up. He tries to tackle her off the bed, sleepily, but ends up mostly just wrapped in a hug instead. 

Tim can feel the foul mood building all through dinner, and he retreats more and more behind a wall of silence until he can finally retreat for real. He slips away before dessert, making his way to one of the spare rooms in the East wing. There’s a blanket nest in one of the wardrobes still that he never got around to dismantling, and Alfred seems content to leave it alone so long as it doesn’t spill onto the floor. It’s as good a place to hide as any. 

And it’s his best shot at getting some space at the moment. Since Bruce, y’know forbade him from going out as Robin or BatWatch tonight. And Bruce hasTim-proofed pretty much the entire property by now. Tim’s old tricks don’t work, and while he has some new ones, he’s trying to save them for some truly desperate future situation. Just in case.

So yeah. For now, Tim hides, and feels, and tries _not_ to feel, and brushes through Nova’s fur slowly like it’s the only thing left in the small, dark world. 

After less than an hour, Bruce comes in and cracks open the door of the wardrobe Tim’s retreated into, and he’s carrying two light jackets tossed over one arm. 

“Tim,” Bruce whispers. Like he’s unwilling to break the silence of the room. Tim doesn’t move from his spot in the dark. But he doesn’t ignore Bruce either.

“Today has been a bad day,” Bruce says. “Buddy. Look. I know you’ve been listening to _Mad Rush_ on repeat for at least the past hour. Spotify doesn’t lie. If it’s a Phillip Glass kind of night, I don’t want you spending it alone in a closet.”

 _Jason_ is a dirty little _snitch_ with the moral backbone of a chocolate eclair, and Tim should never have swapped Spotify profiles with him. If he’d known Jason would cave to Bruce so easily, he _wouldn’t_ have. 

Tim dips his eyes down and snaps his thumb and first two fingers together in a sharp _no_ at Bruce. Even if he’s not totally sure what he’s saying no _to_ , at this point. Maybe just...everything. 

Bruce’s brows settle into a determined line, and he pulls the wardrobe doors open wide. 

“Come on,” he says. “We’re taking a walk.”

Tim knows he’s not going to win this. He stares at Bruce without moving for a few long seconds, on principle, but finally gives in. 

Tim climbs out of the nest he created of old blankets and unused pillows in silence, and accepts the hoodie Bruce holds out for him. Tim yanks it over his head carelessly, and it’s Bruce who straightens out the folds of the hood, _Bruce_ who brushes Tim’s hair back behind his ears with careful touches. Tim taps his thigh twice, and Nova hops out of the wardrobe behind him, settling into a close heel as Tim follows Bruce out of the room.

They head outside by way of the rich-smelling greenhouse in the back. Tim likes it there, and he knows Bruce does too—probably more than anyone else in the manor. It always smells like growth and fresh air, and just _life_. Sometimes they need to retreat somewhere that’s the opposite of Gotham’s darkest corners.

* * *

After they make it out of the manor, Tim and Bruce walk on in silence. 

Tim is grateful, suddenly, that this is Bruce walking with him in the twilight, and not anyone else. He doesn’t want to be pushed to speak, or be read without any words necessary by Cass. He loves her, dearly. Would die for her. But sometimes he needs to figure out his feelings in his own time. Sometimes, he’s not ready for her to see him so clearly.

Bruce is the one who ultimately breaks the silence. 

“I’d like to try something,” he says, “if that’s all right with you.” 

Tim makes a small noise of acknowledgement. 

“Today was a really hard day for you. I can’t imagine the kind of feelings and thoughts your dealing with right now. But I’d like to help as much as I can. Do you think we can try the boulder method for a little while?”

Tim hesitates. It’s not a bad idea. The boulder method pretty much always works; Dick and Jason were right. But…

He reaches out, tentatively, and catches Bruce’s sleeve. Bruce stops, surprised, and turns to face Tim. 

“What is it?”

Tim takes a deep breath and scrounges around his brain for the signs he’s looking for. Bruce will understand.

 _Don’t want,_ he starts, clawed hands shoving outward, then stops. He shakes his head furiously, making sure to look Bruce in the eyes, even though it _aches_. After so long hiding, keeping everything to just himself, it always takes Tim’s breath away just how much being honest _hurts_ sometimes. 

_Can’t,_ Tim amends, face reddening, and his right pointer finger smacks down on his left with more force than strictly necessary. His fingers shift up to his mouth, tapping and pointing between himself and Bruce to explain, _talk with._

The tension around Bruce’s eyes softens ever so slightly. 

“You can’t talk right now,” he says, and Tim could almost cry. There’s not the faintest hint of judgement in his tone. 

Tim nods, looking down. His hand settles into Nova’s fur, soft and warm and real.

“Hey,” Bruce says softly, and his fingers catch Tim’s chin, lifting it gently. “That’s all right,” Bruce says. His eyes don’t leave Tim’s. “You don’t owe me any words. Or anyone else. Take your time.”

Tim swallows. Bruce’s hand settles on his tangled hair, instead, for a moment, and Tim leans into it.

“You can wait until you’re ready,” Bruce goes on. “Whether that’s tonight, or tomorrow, or whenever. And if you’re ready to talk about some things, but not others, that’s okay too. But I’m sure you have a lot of questions and worries right now, even if you’re not ready to use your voice. Are you okay if I talk, at least? Try to answer what I can, and then when we go inside maybe you can write down any questions you still have?”

 _Yes,_ Tim says. _Yes._

“Okay,” Bruce says, and they start to walk again along the edge of the tree line. 

Tim’s first two fingers hook loosely under the edge of Nova’s collar and don’t let go. 

“Your parents contacted me last week, to tell me they were coming to Gotham indefinitely and wanted to speak with you,” Bruce begins, voice carefully emotionless, like he’s delivering a Batman report to Commissioner Gordon. “I wasn’t going to let them until they gave me a _why_. And they did, but they made me sign an NDA first, because none of it is public knowledge yet and they didn’t want me to leak to the press. As if _that_ is what I’d be concerned about in this situation,” Bruce scoffs. 

Tim would smile if he was in a better mood. As it is, he bumps his hand against Bruce’s for a moment. Just to let Bruce know he understands.

Bruce sighs. “Anyway,” he goes on. “Since your mom is sick, I agreed that you should be told. But I don’t agree with the way they did it. You’re right, Tim, that your parents should have told you much, much sooner than this. You should have known from the beginning. They don’t have custody rights at the moment, but you’re still _family_. And I know you send them emails every other week, even if they rarely write back. I’m sorry they waited so long.”

Tim shrugs, kicks a couple pine cones. The last one cracks apart against the toes of his shoe.

“After we left today, I had my lawyers contact them and get as many details as possible. Would facts help right now, or be too much?”

Tim tilts his head, considering, and then signs _good_.

“All right,” Bruce says amiably. “I figured. You and I are very similar, sometimes. It’s easier to think about a situation when it’s not a great big unknown. Knowledge can be power.” Tim nods, and Bruce puts a hand on his shoulder as they turn to follow the perimeter as it bent right and rose up into a line of stone markers. “Your mother’s cancer was already stage four when they found it. As of her last scan, there are tumors in her stomach, liver, and spleen, and they found cancer cells in her lymph system. They haven’t been responding positively to the aggressive chemo that’s she’s received so far.”

Tim closes his eyes, taking that in. He did a _lot_ of reading when Ives got cancer, learned as much as he could about as many types of cancers and treatment types as possible. It’s how Tim keeps his cool in bad situations.

For the cancer have spread that much around Janet’s body already...the odds aren’t good. 

Tim knows the math.

“Tim,” Bruce says, solemnly. They’ve stopped now, just as the sun is slipping almost completely below the tree line. The western sky is like a painting of deep purple and navy blue, scattered orange clouds dotted around as contrast. Bruce sits Tim down on one of the boulders and crouches in front of him. His thumbs find their way to Tim’s cheekbones, curving gently under the tired, slightly-swollen eyes. 

Bruce’s voice is low, steady, and unavoidable, like a hammer blow in slow motion. But Tim _needs_ this, and he needs to hear it from _Bruce_. He needs to hear it from someone he trusts.

“Your mother is going to die,” Bruce says, unwavering. “She’s come home for whatever amount of time she has left. And it’s not something any of us can fix,” Bruce says, as gently as possible. “But she’s going to have the best care anyone can afford, all the way to the very end. We are not going to let her suffer. I _promise_ , Tim.”

Tim’s eyes are leaking for what is at least the fourth time today, now. He tries so hard to keep his face from crumbling, but Bruce pulls him in anyway. Tim’s face nestles into the dip of Bruce’s shoulder and he shudders, just once. 

“I’m so, so sorry,” Bruce says softly, one hand rubbing slowly up and down Tim’s back. “I know,” he soothes. “I know. It’s not fair. None of this has been fair.”

 _“Bruce,”_ Tim cries, the word so strangled it’s almost incoherent. Nova’s head is nestled on his lap, warm and heavy. She licks his hand twice, until he buries his fingers into the fur just behind her ears. 

“I’m here, sweetheart,” Bruce says, mouth pressing into Tim’s hair for a few moments, hard. 

“Why,” Tim gasps out. “Why this now?”

“I don’t know, Tim,” Bruce says, pulling back just enough to make sure Tim can see his face. “I don’t know why bad things happen to us, or why sometimes they happen over and over in a row. I wish I had the answers. But life isn’t simple, no matter how much we try to understand it. Sometimes bad things just _happen_ , and there is no reason. And you do _not_ have to try to find meaning in it, or be grateful for it, or say ‘it made me grow!’ as if loss is a good thing. Sometimes suffering just _hurts_. And it’s okay to be hurt, and to feel angry, and confused, and helpless, and a million other things.” 

Tim nods, and he’s grateful again that this is _Bruce_ , who understands better than probably anyone how uncaring and capricious the universe can be. Bruce lost _everything_ in just seconds as a child, and he didn’t break. He took all his hurt and pain over the years and turned it back into his own strength, so that he had a reason to build back up and keep living. 

Tim knows nothing he’s been through has been nearly as bad as all that. Or as bad as Dick watching his parents fall to their deaths in front of him, or Jason losing a father to prison and a mother to drugs. _But,_ he thinks, _if all of them have made it through the unimaginable, then I can make it through this too._

“There is always enough good in life,” Bruce adds, a few moments later, “to make living worth the hurt. That’s the _one_ promise I can give you.”

Tim lets Bruce pull him up slowly, and they each keep one arm wrapped around each other—and Tim keeps one hand on Nova—as they walk. 

“What do I need to do,” Tim asks, dully, and what he means is _what do my parents need?_ What he means is _how is my life going to change during all this?_

What he means is _how do I fix what’s unfixable?_

“You need to take care of yourself first, at all times,” Bruce says firmly, and it’s just a slide to the left of full-on Batman. “I mean it. No matter what you think your role is supposed to be, Tim, you’re a child, and it’s not your responsibility to manage _any_ of this situation. No matter how much you want to help fix it when you see people suffering.” He looks at Tim and smiles, then, and there’s pride in his voice when he speaks. “It’s part of what makes you such a good Robin. You can never see a bad situation and leave it alone. But you _can’t_ take on more than you can handle with this, Tim. Just like when we’re in the field. You have backup for a reason. Use it.”

Tim can feel Bruce’s piercing stare on him, and he nods reluctantly. Point taken.

“Do I—” Tim starts. They’re getting close to the front entrance now. “Should I...move back home for part of it? Just for a while? I know legally you have custody, but—she’s my mom. Shouldn’t I be there to help for this?”

Bruce sighs. “A court decided that it’s not healthy or safe for you to live with your parents unless things change significantly for the better,” Bruce says. “And while we can agree that they have significantly _changed_ , it’s not in a way that will make your parents better at actually parenting you. Even if the court allowed me to send you back there for a period of time, I wouldn’t right now, Tim. I know you want to help, and it’s very, very kind of you. No matter what’s happened over the years, you still love your parents very much. That’s not a bad thing. But buddy,” Bruce says, looking at Tim again as they stop below the stairs to the front doors. “Do you, _Tim,_ really want to stay in your old house with them? Do you feel like you would be safe and happy there?”

And Tim really, really wants to say _yes_. _Yes_ is what a good son would say. A son who wasn’t afraid of bad situations, a son who could take a little bit of negativity, a son who didn’t leave his parents alone in a crisis.

But he can’t. He would be _miserable_. Being there today was hard enough before any of the bad news was dropped, and he was smart enough to know that tensions would probably only rise as his mother’s cancer progressed.

Tim shakes his head. He hates that he does.

Bruce laces his hand through Tim’s. “It’s not wrong for you to want to be there,” he says. “But Tim? You’re always going to be my main priority in all of this. No matter what, you will always come first. So I need you to trust me make the right decisions about what’s actually best for you, and in return, you have my word I _will_ include you in those decisions as much as possible. Does that sound fair to you?”

“Yeah,” Tim bites out, feeling like he’s lived for a hundred years and also just a little kid again. “I...I trust you.” 

“Thank you, Tim,” Bruce says, pulling him into a long hug. “I promise that you’re not going to walk through any of this alone.”

Well. Tim can only hope. And try to trust. For now he ducks away from Bruce after the requisite amount of time, and heads inside to join Jason, Cass, and Alfred as they watch their weekly Miss Marple episode. 

* * *

This was later widely regarded as being a fairly bad move, because Tim, to his great frustration, found himself feeling _so_ smothered by affection and _so_ tangled up in too many strong emotions to handle that he launched headfirst into an absolutely _royal_ meltdown. 

His guilt and fear from earlier, when he’d lost control at his parents’ house and thrown the giraffe, have been compounding for _hours_. He’s embarrassed over how emotional he’s been in front of everyone, how much he’s cried over the course of the day. He doesn’t want to _touch_ the knot of confusing feelings he has about the whole situation in general at this point. It’s absolutely incomprehensible to Tim. He doesn’t even know where to _start_. 

It’s not like his upbringing so far has included a chapter about _How To Emotionally Handle Your Mixed Feelings About Your Parents When One of Them is Suddenly Dying_. 

By the time Dick bounds out of the room with Nova, Peanut, and Ace on his heels to fit in one last run outside before bed, Tim is a simmering pot ready to boil. But he holds it back, keeps his answers short and his limbs to himself, and Cass must see something in his body language that’s a warning, because she doesn’t come within six inches of his skin. She does keep glancing over, though, which only serves to heighten his already heightened stress. He feels like she’s waiting for him to explode. Also, the last thing in the world he wants to do is make anyone else worried about him. He just wants—he wants...god, Tim doesn’t even know _what_ he wants. He wants everything to _stop_ for a bit. He wants to be able to _think_. 

Predictably, it’s the smallest thing in the world that finally smashes Tim’s big red nuclear meltdown button. The Miss Marple episode has been over for a little while, and their little group is talking about the murder and how they did or didn’t catch on to this or that or the other clue. 

Normally Tim is a quite vocal part of these conversations. But tonight, he sits in his chosen corner of the sofa and only offers monosyllabic contributions. 

Jason, his Tim-senses _clearly_ tingling, apparently has had enough. 

“Okay. That’s it,” Jason says, leaping up from the sofa in one fluid motion. He walks over to stand in front of Tim. “Up, baby bird. I can’t stand to see you like this. We’re going to Insomnia Cookies, and you can be your stubborn silent self the whole way if you want, but you’re going to pick out a cookie if it kills you.”

He reaches out and latches his hands around Tim’s wrists, and that’s just. 

_Too much._

“Don’t _touch me!”_ Tim snarls, yanking his hands away so hard that Jason almost is knocked off balance. Tim’s over sofa edge and onto his feet before he realizes he’s even moved. He’s about to vibrate out of his skin. 

Everything is too close. There are too many eyes on him, lighting up his skin like fire, and he _cannot_ lose it right now. He can’t, he can’t, _he can’t_ —

Alfred keeps a careful distance, not approaching Tim further, but he does begin to speak. “Master Tim,” Alfred starts, quietly. “I rather think you need to take several deep breaths and try to calm—”

“Do NOT tell me to calm down,” Tim snaps. A distant part of his brain, very, very far away at the moment, gasps _You just raised your voice at Alfred!_ Tim ruthlessly shuts it down. He does not have the time to deal with that right now. He needs to get _out_. Why can’t everyone just leave him _alone?_

Jason, shock and confusion clear on his face, reaches for Tim with one hand. 

_“No,”_ Tim shouts, and he just—he needs to get it out, so badly, he’s going to explode right now if he doesn’t, and his hand is moving and he’s spinning on his heel and then Tim’s phone is cracking against the far wall like a gunshot ringing out in stunned silence. Tim can hardly even feel his hands anymore, only the swelling, blinding need for _running_ and _screaming_ and making someone else hurt the way that he’s hurting so badly right now.

He can’t. He _can’t_ hurt anyone. But he’s so, so terrified that he will. He has nightmares about the day he finally loses control and seriously injures someone he loves in a fit of anger. He can’t let it happen. But he’s afraid that he’s not going to be able to stop himself one of these times, if he goes much further. 

Cass has found her way behind Jason, now, slipping her hand into his and gently trying to tug him towards one of the doorways.

And Bruce is here, suddenly, appearing in the doorway in a split second. He doesn’t walk up to Tim, for once. He steps just inside the border of the room, doorknob still in his hand. He leaves the doorway open. Locks eyes with Jason. 

“Out,” he says quietly, in a tone allowing no argument. “Get Dick.” Cass tugs Jason firmly out of the room before Jason can say a word. Alfred follows a few steps behind, nodding once at Bruce.

Tim is still standing rigid, so _full_ and no clue what to do about it. He’s lava now, surely his skin is a boiling vat, surely Bruce must be able to feel how heavy the air in the room has grown. 

Bruce steps further into the room, but keeps the same distance from Tim as he walks. Tim watches like a hawk, wishing Bruce would just _do something_ already. Just get it over with. Tim can _react_ , but waiting is one of the seven levels of hell.

But all Bruce does is slowly settle into the lotus position on the floor, facing Tim. 

“I’m here,” he says, voice low. “You’re safe, Tim. It’s all right.” 

“Stop _talking,”_ Tim shouts, and he hates that his voice shakes in every syllable now. He’s so angry, and his own voice is betraying him. He wants to sound as full and powerful as he _feels_ . “I don’t want to talk! I don’t want to hear _anything_ you have to say!”

“Okay,” says Bruce, still so calm, and it drives Tim _crazy_.

“It’s _not_ okay!” he yells. _“None_ of this is even _remotely_ okay!” Bruce doesn’t flinch. “I don’t want to talk about it, I don’t want to _think_ about it, I don’t want it to be happening! Every single time I think things are finally settling down, something new goes wrong. I’m tired of remembering things. I’m tired of going to therapy. I’m tired of finding out my parents were lousy according to other people’s standards, and I’m tired of pity, and I’m tired of everything being so different, and I’m tired of being afraid, and I’m tired of having to learn everything all over again all the time!”

Tim pauses, chest heaving. 

“I hear you,” Bruce says quietly. “I’m here.”

 _“Stop it!”_ Tim snaps. He’s reaching the upper limit of his volume dial now. It’s hell on his throat. Every single muscle in his body is drawn tighter than a bow string, and he’s _tired_. “This is _all_ your _fault!”_ Tim’s voice cracks twice in that sentence, the traitor. 

Bruce looks very slightly confused. Finally, a crack in the armor. A calmer Tim, a Tim who still had control of, oh, all the _non-lizard_ faculties of his brain, would have stopped right there. He probably wouldn’t have gotten to that sentence at all. But this is _angry_ Tim. Out-of-control Tim. Pressure cooker Tim. 

At this point, it doesn’t even matter what words come out of his mouth. They just need to be _angry_. He needs someone else to hurt, he needs to bleed off some of his boiling fullness into another vessel. 

“Everything was fine until you and your stupid family came and ruined _everything,”_ Tim finds himself shouting. His eyes feel like a house fire. “I was fine! I was managing everything with flying colors. I handled school and the blog and all the other things just fine, and my parents were happy, and everything was normal and okay! There was a system, and it worked, and everybody knew what to expect. No one was sick, or—or dying, and I wasn’t crying like, _every other day,_ and I was _okay_ if people left me alone for more than a few hours at a time for some reason, and now my whole life is this never-ending roller coaster that I never had to deal with before! I can’t handle anything! What kind of almost-fifteen-year-old can’t stand to be alone in a house for a couple hours? I’m supposed to be dying to be given that kind of freedom! Everything was okay before you decided my life wasn’t how you wanted it to be and you took over and ruined everything! I want things to stop changing. I don’t want to be afraid of people leaving me all the time! I don’t want to know that what my parents did was hurting me! I’m tired of hurting! I’m sick of all of this! I don’t want to keep doing this, I want it to _stop,_ I don’t want to lose anyone again! I want the old me back,” Tim gasps, and he’s heaving enormous, ugly cries now. Tim doesn’t notice as Dick quietly enters the room, taking in the situation. 

“None of this would have happened if you hadn’t kept inviting me over,” Tim says, between gasps. “You ruined everything! You took me away from them! They _told_ me how much trouble I was causing and you said it would be all _right,_ and now my mom is dying and she probably got sick from all the extra stress affecting her immune system because _I_ couldn’t just suck it up and take a little bit of fighting like I always did before, and it’s your fault! I _hate_ you!” Tim sobs.

Hurt flashes clearly across Bruce’s face, just like Tim wanted, and it feels like a rush, to be able to put that there. It feels good for a moment, to make someone hurt the way that Tim is hurting, to be able to make someone bleed. But then...

But then it’s _not._ It’s not nice at all. 

Because how is Tim better than any other bully, now? Tim saw weakness and went in for the kill, like a piranah smelling blood, he hurt someone on _purpose_ just now, he struck where he knew it would hurt. Why does he want someone else to hurt? It doesn’t make anything better. It doesn’t fix _him._ It just makes two of them feel pain now. Regret and guilt and shame are flooding Tim in a matter of seconds. He’s still so angry, and so afraid—of the situation, of Bruce, of all the changes, of _himself_. 

_I’m sorry,_ a part of him wants to say. But the rest of him isn’t ready yet. 

He sees Bruce very, _very_ carefully taking deep breaths, eyes closed, trying to wipe his emotions clear. _I did that._ Tim swallows back bitter guilt. _I did this._

“Dick,” Bruce says, only the faintest strain audible in his voice. “I need you to take over for a minute. I’m going to go take a time out, and then I’ll be back.” Bruce stands and begins to walk to the door. 

_“Don’t leave me!”_ Tim shouts, suddenly losing the tiny amount of calm that his guilty conscience had brought back. “You _can’t,_ come back here, you can’t leave. Stop! Come _back!”_ Tim can barely see through the shimmering film over his eyes at this point. He snatches up one of his shoes from where he set it next to the sofa, and hurls it at Bruce, coming within inches of the man’s head. 

Then hands are slipping under his armpits, snaking up and around his shoulders, hauling him up and backwards. Dick drops him down slowly until he’s on the floor, arms still held tight. Tim gets his feet up under him and tries to _push,_ shoving himself off the carpet, but Dick is a world-class acrobat, and Tim may be Robin but he’s no match for Dick’s flexibility and adult strength. Dick goes through some contortion to get his legs wrapped around Tim’s thighs, a little awkward, but effective, and then they’re both flat on their backs. Tim twists and tries to yank out of the hold, stretched out on top of his oldest brother in an iron grip. Dick doesn’t let go. 

“I hate you,” Tim is gasping, over and over again. “I hate you, I hate you. I hate you. I hate me,” he croaks. “I hate me. I hate this. I _hate_ this!” 

Dick’s voice hasn’t let up the string of low, soothing sounds since they started to drop down, and even though Tim has no clue what Dick’s saying, it does start to help once Tim calms down enough to hear the tone. He shudders out broken, gasping sobs, pressed tightly against Dick’s warm, solid muscles, listening to his brother’s reassurances and chatter. Tim starts to slowly settle, slowly breathe a little more smoothly.

Bruce comes back in at some point. Tim watches him come and sit down a few feet away, watching his sons with open concern. But he doesn’t look angry. 

Maybe he’s just hiding it. Maybe he’s just biding his time, letting it build, and then he’ll snap at Tim right when Tim starts to let his guard down again. That’s always the worst. Things will be quiet, and then a bag will be set down a little too hard, or a page will be turned a little too sharply, and Tim only needs to do one thing and then all hell is going to break loose. 

Tim can’t help it. He starts sobbing all over again, inconsolable. He just wants all of this to be _over._

Dick holds him until Tim has finally cried himself to a point of such exhaustion that his abdomen is cramping, his throat is on fire, and his face feels bruised. He’s got nothing left _to_ cry at this point. He lies still, wrapped up in Dick’s arms, more comfortably now. Their stillness is broken only by an occasional involuntary shiver from Tim.

“Tim, baby,” Dick whispers, like he’s afraid to break the tentative peace. “Do you think we can try to sit up, maybe?”

Tim nods against Dick’s chest, too tired to speak. He sniffs hard a couple of times. _Need a Kleenex,_ Tim thinks vaguely. _Maybe twenty._

Dick levers them up, one hand keeping Tim from tipping forward and faceplanting into the carpet. Tim’s too exhausted to fight anymore, but he’s still plenty awake enough to feel the rising embarassment and shame. He’s never lost control so badly in his entire life. Maybe when he was a toddler, he guesses, but not—not like this. He can’t even understand everything he said in the past hour or so. He didn’t mean most of it. He doesn’t know what went so wrong.

As if he can read Tim’s mind, Bruce hands him a few Kleenexes, giving him a few moments to blow his nose and gather his bearings. Then he meets Tim’s eyes. 

“Will you sit with me for a while?” Bruce asks. “Give Dick a break?”

Tim doesn’t want to sit with Bruce. Tim wants to crawl into a hole and _die_ for maybe twenty years, until this whole incident is forgotten by everyone except him. But Dick’s got to be exhausted. He just held Tim, who’s no weakling, for ages, after a long week of work as a cop and chasing criminals around rooftops as Nightwing. Of course Tim will give Dick a break.

So he doesn’t nod, but he leans out of Dick’s lap and scoots the couple of feet over to where Bruce is leaning against the back of one of the sofas. Bruce pulls him in gently, leaning Tim’s head onto his shoulder and making sure he’s propped up comfortably against the upholstery. 

Dick hauls himself to his feet. “I’m going to go get us some water,” he says, with a small smile. Tim doesn’t deserve it. “I’ll be right back.”

Bruce waits till Dick is out of sight before he leans down, presses his lips to Tim’s hair. Tim tenses and stomps down the impulse to shove Bruce out of arm’s reach so he doesn’t hurt him any more than he already has. 

“Br’ce,” Tim mumbles, and Bruce straightens up again, but he also tightens his arm around Tim’s waist. 

“Tim,” Bruce says softly. 

“I’m sorry,” Tim breathes. “I’m really, really sorry.”

Bruce hums for a moment, filling the silence as he chooses the right words. “I know.” He takes a deep breath, then continues. “I know today has been a terrible day for you, Tim, and I know you’re not thinking clearly tonight. This isn’t how you’d ever normally act. But your behavior is still unacceptable, regardless of the reasons.” 

Tim has just barely enough energy left to tense as his entire nervous system feels like it floods with ice. Bruce quickly shushes him, reaching up with his free hand to stroke Tim’s hair back a few times. 

“I’m not going to punish you, Tim, I don’t want you to be afraid. No matter what you do in my house, I am never going to give you punishments. I understand that you probably can’t accept that yet, but I’m giving you the promise anyway. We’re going to _talk_ about what happened later, once you've gotten some rest, and you have to apologize to people you hurt and make necessary reparations. But you don’t deserve to be punished.” 

“I don’t get it,” Tim whispers. “I tried to hurt you. I yelled at everyone. And I lost control with my parents earlier.” 

“There’s a difference between discipline and punishment,” Bruce says. “It took a long time before Jason learned that, too, but you’ll get there. Discipline is calm, and gives you ways to learn and grow more. Punishment only hurts you or makes you afraid. And punishment usually is more severe than the incident requires, as well.” 

“What are you going to do, then,” Tim mumbles. 

“Right now?” Bruce says, straightening up. “Right now I’m going to help you to bed. And I’m going to stay with you until you fall asleep. We can read some Sherlock Holmes, if you want.” 

Tim blinks. Squints at the grandfather clock across the room for a few moments. “What?”

“I’m not going to punish you, Tim,” Bruce repeats, slowly. “I’m not angry. And even if I was, I would never, ever take it out on you. That’s why I left for a while. I gave myself space and time to calm down, so that I could treat you fairly instead of reacting from my own upset feelings.” 

“You can...do that?” Tim asks, feeling kind of stupid. 

“Yes.” Bruce gets up on one knee, giving Tim his hand. “It’s a skill you have to learn, but if a grown-up is emotionally mature, they’ll use strategies to make sure they never hurt a child or make a situation escalate. I’ll teach you, if you let me.”

“I...okay,” Tim says, still confused, but too tired to be too bothered at this point. Bruce hauls him to his feet. “But...you’re not going to take away anything? At all? Or...you’re not mad?” 

“No, Tim,” Bruce says. Alfred is waiting with two mugs of sweet fruit tea in the hallway as they exit the room. Bruce takes them both and gestures Tim forward ahead of him. “You made some mistakes, and acted out. That doesn’t mean you deserve to have your things broken. Besides,” he adds dryly. “I think you did enough of that tonight yourself.” 

Tim feels a whole new wave of guilt and anger at himself as he suddenly remembers throwing his phone in an angry haze. 

“It’s okay,” Bruce says. “We’ll fix it.” 

“You can’t fix everything,” Tim says, but there’s no bite left in it. 

“Nope, maybe not,” Dick says, jogging up to them with a tall glass of water. “But the nice thing is, B is always willing to try.” 

* * *

Bruce does stay with Tim, helping him wash his face, get into pajamas, climb into bed. He reads one and a half Sherlock Holmes stories to his children, who all find their way to Tim’s room, _somehow_. 

Tim falls asleep to the sound of Bruce’s steady voice, with Jason and Cass silently curled up against him on either side. Dick dozes in the loveseat under Tim’s large window. 

And when Tim wakes up the next morning, Nova and Ace have replaced his siblings. Tim assumes everyone was shifted into their own beds at some point in the night while Tim was dead to the world. He’s hopes they’re getting some good rest. 

And Bruce, somehow, impossibly, is _still there,_ tipped backwards slightly in a chair next to Tim’s bed. 

He stirs as Tim shoves himself up from the mattress, blankets and dogs all shifting around quietly. 

“Tim,” Bruce says so warmly, as if nothing happened between them the day before. As if Tim hadn’t just spent the better part of an hour hurling ugliness and anger and hurt at him when he didn’t deserve it. 

Tim stares. “You didn’t leave?” Tim says. “You—you stayed all night? Even after…”

“I made a promise, last year,” Bruce says, and he reaches out to take both of Tim’s hands in his. “I said that I would take care of you, and be a good father to you to the best of my ability. I meant it.” Bruce helps Tim step over Ace’s gently snoring head and off of the bed, catching him when he stumbles once. “And you needed me.” 

“I don’t deserve that,” Tim says, desperately. “I was cruel.” 

“I love you, Tim,” Bruce says firmly. His hands press into Tim’s shoulders. “Nothing is going to change that. Everyone makes mistakes. What _matters_ is if you choose to do better after you make them.” 

Tim is still overwhelmed, and unsure about what’s going to happen, what’s expected of him going forward. But Bruce _stayed_ . _All night._ Bruce is still in his rumpled work clothes from last night, even after everything Tim said and did. _If he stayed after all of this,_ Tim realizes, sleepily, _then I guess...he really will be with me for the rest of it. Like he was saying. And if Bruce is walking me through Mom’s next months, then maybe he WILL make it okay._

He doesn’t know if he deserves it. He probably doesn’t. 

But maybe it’s not about deserving, Tim thinks. Maybe sometimes, it’s going to have to be enough to just accept kindness for once in his life, and let the rest fall into place. 

He told Bruce he trusts him, more than once. It’s time for Tim to start acting like it. 

So Tim walks slowly down the stairs with Bruce as they head for the kitchen. 

“I didn’t mean it,” Tim says, watching Bruce. “Last night. I didn’t mean any of it. I’m so sorry, Bruce, I don’t hate you, it’s not your fault, I love you, I promise. I’m sorry I said it.” 

“I know, Timmy,” Bruce says. He looks down at Tim and smiles wider than Tim has seen in a while. “Besides, you’re not the first angry teenager to say the big h-word around here. It’s kind of a rite of passage. I know you don’t mean it.”

“But it still hurts you,” Tim points out.

“Yes,” Bruce says. “It always hurts. But I’d rather be hurt a hundred times than have one of you not feel safe enough to lose control in front of me, and turn all that anger inside instead.” Bruce pins Tim with an Alfred-level look. “I mean it,” he says. “If you need outlets, we will find some. You can take up a new sport, or learn music, journal, whatever. I’ll buy you a dozen dish sets you can smash in a spare room if that would help. Just so long as you don’t keep all of this inside. All right?”

Tim smiles back, tentative and still a little guilt-ridden. But he does smile. 

“Okay,” he says. “Okay, B. I’m still sorry.” 

“And I still forgive you,” Bruce laughs. “And I will as many times as you need to say it. Come on,” he says, lightly, linking his elbow around Tim’s and tugging him faster past the last few doorways. “Let’s get some breakfast before Alfred decides that we’re too tardy and puts a padlock on the fridge. I’m not about to be stuck with only Dick’s sugar cereal again.”

“Bruce,” Tim days. “No offense. But sometimes you’re just such a dad.” 

“I sure hope so, sport,” Bruce says in his public Brucie voice, and ruffles Tim’s hair _hard_. 

Tim laughs as he ducks away, and for now? This morning? He’s going to believe in Bruce. He’s going to believe in what Bruce is trying to teach him, and take it to heart as much as he can. 

Things aren’t okay. And _Tim_ isn’t okay. Not even close. But Bruce hasn’t left him alone yet, and Tim will trust in that like he’s never really trusted anyone before. He’s going to trust in more than just the careful ways he has so far, with boundaries and compartments and lines between his past and present. He’s going to try to trust Bruce as a real _dad._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not sure how I feel about this chapter. It was really, really a struggle to write on several different levels, and I hope you like it okay! The tone is going to change back to the normal happier stuff in the next chapter, and that’s a promise! But Tim needed to have more of a reaction than I let him have before, so here we are for now. 
> 
> Remember to drink something, eat, and take any meds you need! Happy New Year, everyone! I’m so hoping that this year treats you well. <3


	5. young and a menace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go back to normal, or as normal as things ever get in the Wayne, family, anyway. His kids are going to give Bruce ulcers. Dick just wants to have _fun._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Filler chapter to apologize for the heaviness of the previous couple! I hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> Chapter title is from "Young and a Menace" by Fall Out Boy.

After his parents drop the whole cancer bombshell on Tim, and after Tim’s subsequent meltdown of Truly Epic Proportions, things somehow, impossibly, go back to _something_ resembling normal. 

Everything is business as usual for the most part. Just, Tim’s brain stays ever-so-slightly two millimeters to the left, one little thread of thought never able to completely let go of worry about what’s going to happen to his mom. 

He makes it work. 

Two days after the Tim’s Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad day, Tim wakes up finally feeling like himself again. He launches himself back into things with a vengeance, starting with an intense morning run with Nova, then moving on to the real business of the day.

Tim goes through Bruce’s lawyers himself, obtaining his mother’s chemo schedule, a list of foods that don’t make her throw up for half an hour, the contact information for her oncologist. He spends four hours reading detailed blog posts about how people’s stomach cancer progressed through end stages, and then skips dinner to solve seven cases in a row before Jason stalks down to the cave and physically hauls Tim up to his room. Jason flops himself across Tim till Tim falls asleep with a couple of tears still drying on his nose where it’s smashed into the pillow. 

Tim wakes up to a fresh-from-patrol Bruce sitting on the edge of his bed, looking at him with some terrible mix of worry and love that makes Tim’s skin crawl and his brain want to run about five miles away, _quick_. 

But Tim’s learned better than that, and he’s _working on it, okay, Dinah,_ so Tim squashes down the knee-jerk reaction and lets Bruce stay, lets him pull Tim into a hug, lets himself be fourteen instead of forty for a minute. 

“Sorry I missed patrol,” Tim says into Bruce’s base layer. 

“I’m happy you got some sleep,” Bruce says, “you needed it.” He squeezes Tim briefly. “Heard you got a lot of research done today.”

“I want to go see my mom during her treatments, away from the house,” Tim says, getting straight to the point. He does _not_ want to have any version of the conversation he knows Bruce is attempting, in his own awkward but earnest way, to dance his way into with Tim in tow. 

“Hm,” Bruce says, neutrally, _damn_ him. _Bruce is too good at forcing all of us to say more than we want to,_ Tim thinks sourly. 

“I checked with her doctor and the treatment center already. I’m over 12, so I just have to have adult supervision. And not make her upset.” _I want to see her,_ he doesn’t say. _It’s not the cold empty house. I can’t lose control again with other people around. I don’t want to lose her without knowing her at least a little. I don’t want to lose her at all. I don’t know who she is. She doesn’t know much about me. I want my mom._

“I’m not leaving you alone with your parents,” Bruce warns. “I’ll stay with you the whole time.”

Tim blinks. Did he—wait. It was that easy? 

“What?” Tim asks, suspiciously, pulling his head out of Bruce’s arms to squint up at him. 

“I’m not leaving you alone with them again, even in a public area,” Bruce repeats. “So I’ll stay with you when you see her.”

“I can? I mean. You’re fine with it? Just like that?”

“I’m not going to keep you from seeing your dying _mother,”_ Bruce says, incredulously, as if Tim should have known this whole time. 

“But—” Tim frowns. “I had this whole argument planned. I was gonna convince you. You can’t just…”

“I could temporarily say no, if you’d like,” Bruce says, grinning. He shifts his voice in pitch, doing an impressive imitation of Mother Gothel. “You absolutely may NOT visit your mother! I forbid it! You’re going to stay locked up here in this tower, young man, don’t even _think_ about sneaking out.”

Tim snorts. 

“Or,” Bruce says, back to his normal voice now, “we can just chalk this up to you still being tired and say we’ll sort out the details later, pretend that you listened to my undelivered yet heartfelt mini-lecture about how you’re no less of a Robin for needing a break every now and then and I’m proud of you, and both go back to bed after _punishing our eavesdropper at the door_ with a round of tactical tickling.”

There’s the sound of scrambling sock feet, a _thump_ and a hissed _“Shit!”_ that is clearly Jason. Tim looks at Bruce, still tired but feeling a lot lighter than several minutes ago. 

“Let’s get him,” he says, and Bruce’s answering grin is positively _feral_. 

* * *

Tim and Cass are pounding Tim’s weekly Friday night _I’m-Not-BatWatch-Anymore-But-I-Can’t-Just-Quit-Sneaking-Around-Taking-Photos_ beat when some interesting news comes down the grapevine from one of Tim’s street kids in the warehouse on Billingham. 

There’s a new cape in Gotham. And it’s not a Bat. 

“Are you sure?” Tim asks her, thinking of dark nights and costume changes and Cass officially hitting the streets just a few weeks before. 

The kid gives him a stare to rival Bruce. “They’re _bright_ _purple,”_ she says, as if that smacks down Tim’s unspoken accusation. 

And, well. 

He guesses that’s _him_ told. 

* * *

“Did either of you get eyes on them yet?” Bruce asks later that night, over a tray of Alfred’s scones. 

Cass smacks Jason’s hand away from half-eaten scone number three, then turns and shakes her head at Bruce. 

“Nope,” Tim says, spinning around in circles in Bruce’s enormous rolling desk chair. “And Oracle hasn’t either, which is the concerning bit.” 

“Hn,” Bruce grunts. 

Tim has been around long enough to know that this particular _Hn_ means _I’m also Keeping An Eye On It, but am choosing not to let it worry and distract me quite yet._

“I saw Selina running around a couple times this past week, though,” Jason offers a little too casually, as he manages to snag one of Tim’s scones that was _just_ buttered. “She must be back from her sabbatical-slash-Paris-recon trip.”

“Well, there hasn’t been anything on the news about a Louvre heist,” Tim mumbles around a mouthful of scone and the best blackberry jam he’s ever tasted. “That’s a good sign, right?”

“Probably,” Bruce agrees. “I’ll go pay her a visit tomorrow. Catch up.”

 _“Please_ take Cass with you,” Jason beggs. “B. _B_. You gotta let Cass meet all her cats.”

Tim nods furiously. 

Cass freezes mid-bite, eyes slowly widening in an _absolutely_ intentional attempt at manipulation. They’re even _glistening_ just a little, right in the corners. _Damn,_ Cass is good. 

_Dick has been training you well, young Padawan,_ Tim thinks. _Give it a month and Bruce will never be able to say no to you again._

Bruce hesitates for all of two seconds before giving in. Jason cheers so loudly, he wakes up one of the closer bat roosts. 

“You’re all _menaces,”_ Bruce says. “Absolute hooligans. I don’t know why I love you.” Cass is currently wrapping herself around his side like a koala crossed with a ball python, and Bruce doesn’t bat an eye. He just shifts one arm up and out to make a little more room for her, then takes the opportunity to run his fingers through her short, tangled bob. “You’re terrible children. You’re _killing_ me. You’re killing your father.”

“Love you too, B,” Jason sing-songs, and he vaults over the back of his chair. _Wouldn’t be a Friday without some unnecessary theatrics, after all,_ Tim supposes.

“Same, B, you’re the _best,”_ Tim sighs, resting his head on the table and letting his eyes droop shut. _Ah. Cool, sweet, sweet metal._

Take _that,_ stupid mask adhesive patches. Who’s sore and red now? Not Tim’s panda eyes!

Cass makes a sort of cooing sound high in her throat, almost close to a musical note. _Love,_ she signs, making sure to catch Bruce’s eye, smiling wide. Then, as if it’s just a casual afterthought, she carefully enunciates, “Dad.” 

Bruce chokes on his scone. Literally. 

Jason has to do the Heimlich for a hot second, while Tim screams into the intercom for Alfred to _come quick Bruce is dying Alfred please_ **_oh my god,_ ** and Jason is yelling at him to _just shut up and calm down for two seconds, Tim, he’ll be fine, this happens like every six months,_ and Cass has scrambled up the tallest stalactite the _very_ darkest corner before Bruce even gets his breath back enough to say _lickety-split_. He stands under the stalactite, cowl and cape finally off, and he’s got his hands spread wide like he’s Moses on the mountain, calling up to God on high. 

“Cass, honey, I’m _okay_. It’s not your fault. Please come down.” 

Cass flattens herself further against the rock. Bruce sighs, taking a moment to pinch the bridge of his nose and mumble something along the lines of, oh, _Get kids, they said. It’ll be fun, they said. No one ever warns you about the chasing-them-down-from-impossible-places part. Or maybe that’s just my kids? At least she’s not pulling a Dick._

“Remind me this weekend to teach you how to un-choke Bruce,” Jason mutters, leaning close to Tim’s ear. “It’s part of Robin’s traditional duties. Can’t believe I forgot to pass that on.”

“What,” Tim says, still not sure that the last two minutes actually happened. 

“We all have a bad tendency to spout deep emotional words at Bruce right when he’s eating or drinking things, for some reason,” Jason whispers. “Maybe it’s a conspiracy, maybe we subconsciously sense an opportunity while his mouth is too full to say anything back, I dunno, it just _happens_. Dick likes to think the Robin line got cursed by some old witch.”

Now, they don’t have time to unpack _all_ of that. Tim decides this is one of those times where he needs to pick one battle and just...learn to let go. Meanwhile, Bruce continues trying to reason with Cass off in the distance.

“Cass isn’t a Robin,” Tim points out, reasonably. 

“Well, Dickie is just gonna have to amend it to the ‘adopted Wayne kid’ line, then, and we’ll be like that kid’s family from _Holes,”_ Jason says, waving a hand dismissively. (Somehow, he seems to have ended up with a purloined scone in the past thirty seconds, because Tim’s _positive_ that’s Bruce’s favorite jam on the side of it and not Jason’s.) “The _point_ is that this is gonna happen again sooner rather than later, and it’s _your_ turn to fix Bruce next. Better know what to do before Bruce is dying in your arms.” 

_“Alternatively,”_ Tim says, “we could just assume that Bruce is _not_ going to choke and die just because you have a superstition.”

“You just wait, baby bird,” Jason says, pointing at Tim as he walks backwards towards the showers. “You’ll see how right I am soon enough. I accept apologies in the form of Visa gift cards and Walmart vodka.”

“You are _eighteen years old,”_ Bruce hollers after him, as Cass chooses that moment to serendipitously leap _directly_ onto Bruce’s shoulders. “You’re not allowed to drink yet.” 

Bruce absorbs Cass’s impact as much as possible, rolling the force down through his bent knees, and thank _god_ for top-of-the-line suit armor panels, because Bruce would have some _gnarly_ bruises in the morning if his suit didn’t have that sweet, sweet shock dispersion feature.

“I’m legal in Britain, that’s close enough!” Jason shouts back, and his uniform arcs through the air towards the rolling hamper. 

“That’s not how it works at all,” Bruce sighs. He helps Cass down from his now _very_ sore shoulders, and she pats his cheek gently twice, smiling angelically. Before he can say a single word, she spins on her toes, and with a running leap launches headfirst towards the balance beam to get in some practice. Or play. 

It’s hard to tell the difference sometimes, in this house.

“You let me drink in your study,” Jason accuses, sticking his now-damp head around the tile corner. 

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “Correction: I let you have a _taste_ of historic brandy as an _example_. You didn’t even get enough to drink a shot.”

“Can _I_ have a taste of the historic brandy?” Tim asks.

“No, Tim.”

“I promise I won’t tell anyone you let me drink early.”

“No, Tim.”

_“Bruuuuuuuuce—”_

_“No,_ Tim,” Bruce says, but he ruffles Tim’s hair fondly, and Tim leans into it so hard as Bruce walks past that he ends up tipping over on accident. 

Bruce catches him before he can hit the cave floor, and doesn’t set him back on his feet. He just scoops Tim up the rest of the way and sweeps off to the little lounge corner Dick set up a while back, and promptly dumps Tim onto one of the outrageously expensive Lovesacs. 

Tim’s _hey!_ turns into a happy little moan as he sinks into the heavenly squishiness, and _oh hey,_ maybe he’ll just stay here for a bit, it can’t hurt, right? 

And apparently Bruce can read minds now, because just as Tim finishes thinking that, one of the sherpa-lined blankets is tossed over him up to his shoulders, and he’s being mummy-tucked in from his arms down to his ankles, and—hey. Wait a minute.

“You’re not playing fair,” Tim accuses, fake-scowling as this turn of events draws out a yawn so big his jaw audibly pops. Bruce smiles and kisses Tim once on the forehead after he tucks Tim’s feet in extra tight. 

“I’m the goddamn Batman,” Bruce says. “And Batman says it’s time for little birds to go to bed.”

“‘S not a bed,” Tim grumbles, even as he wiggles around a little to wedge himself further down into the Lovesac. He grins at Bruce. “Cheep cheep.”

“Go to sleep, Timmy,” Bruce says, lips quirking up as he brushes Tim’s hair off his forehead. “You did well tonight.” Bruce stands, starts to turn away.

“Mm,” Tim mumbles, already warm and drowsy enough to doze. “Thanks, Dad.” And he’s out before Bruce can even blink.

* * *

Dick comes home that weekend, watches Cass dancing around to video tutorials from YouTube, lethal and graceful and _extremely into it,_ and turns to Bruce. 

“Dad,” he says, and wow. Dick is jumping straight to the big guns. This must be big. 

Tim watches in mild awe as Bruce’s face softens almost imperceptibly as he looks up at his eldest. 

“Yes, Dick?” Bruce says. 

“Remember when I brought up the silks? Installing some down over near the floor routine area down in the cave?” 

“Dick. No.” 

_“Yes,”_ Dick insists. “Bruce—“

“We are not having this conversation again,” Bruce says. He sounds pained.

“Bruce, _I’m_ the one with trauma about people falling from high things! And it’s not for me this time. Well. Not just for me. Look at her,” he says firmly, gesturing to the side where Cass has dragged a bewildered Jason out of one of his reading nooks and straight into some modern dance duet. She twists into a series of elegant mid-air flips and nearly takes out one of the hanging light fixtures

Bruce looks. He sees. Doesn’t want to admit it. 

_Hook, line…_ Tim muses absently, gaze absolutely locked on Bruce’s face.

“She’s spent years using her body to hurt,” Dick says, serious and intent. “Look how happy she is using it to create, to communicate. You _want_ her to heal. She’s born for movement, Bruce, more than just two feet on the ground can offer her, however complicated it looks. None of us want her to ruin her joints doing ballet, but you know her better than any of us.” 

Dick puts one hand on Bruce’s shoulder, and drops his voice down so soft, Tim has to strain to hear it.

“You _know_ she needs the technical challenge. Come on, Bruce. Let her fly.” 

_...aaaaaand_ ** _sinker,_** Tim thinks, watching Bruce’s face go through all five stages of grief before finally settling on acceptance. Tim gives Dick the tiniest thumbs up ever.

“We set the area up together,” Bruce growls. “Triple-check everything. Do soundings on the ceiling.” 

“Bruce,” says Dick, grinning so wide Tim’s jaw ghost-aches. “I’ll re-check them every weekend myself. This is going to be amazing.” 

“I’m going to regret this,” Bruce says, sounding forlorn. He’s got his _I don’t understand what just happened with my kids or how I got roped into this_ face on. 

“It’ll be okay, Dad,” Dick says, smacking a kiss on Bruce’s cheek for good measure. Just in case. “I promise.” 

A day and a half later, there are four top-of-the-line aerial silk setups in the cave, Dick is doing routines on them to everything from Debussey to Beyonce—including a very impressive double corkscrew drop that leaves Bruce pale and popping a Tums, Dick laughing on an adrenaline high, and Cass scrambling up the silks closest to Dick’s gesturing furiously for him to show her _right now_. 

“Not yet, princess,” Dick says, affectionately. “Your enthusiasm is great, but we have to work you up to the big drops. Also, Bruce can only have so many heart attacks in one day.”

“Why is this so terrifying for you, old man?” Jason asks, dropping onto the Lovesac that Bruce has decided is as good a place as any to have his silent breakdown. “We fly around on grapple lines all the time. Flying around through the air is old hat for all of us, you and Dick more than anyone.” Tim carries over some tea for Bruce, thinking _Alfie is onto something about tea curing all evils short of hunger and bleeding out._ He makes it in time to hear Bruce’s response, voice carefully measured and every word bitten out with precision. _Bruce must actually be pretty rattled, then._

“The grapples,” Bruce says slowly. “Are metal. Reinforced. And we all carry spares for if something goes wrong. The silks are…” he searches for the words. “Fabric stunt tools. They’re beautiful, yes, and I can’t help thinking of the hundred and one ways something can go wrong with weaknesses in the fabric, knots gone wrong, anchor bolt failures. It’s different.”

“I notice you didn’t include human error in any of that,” Jason says wryly. 

“I trust Dick,” Bruce says simply. “And Cass. And both of you.” He accepts the tea from Tim with a strained smile. 

“But…” Jason prompts. 

“But I have control issues,” Bruce says, a little life coming back into him along with the warm fruit tea. “Which you _know_ , you prying hooligan. And I can’t control the pieces of fabric hanging from my own ceiling. I just have to trust that my children will be safe enough with their own skills and the laws of materials physics.” Bruce pauses, takes another long sip. He squints over in the direction of the silks, where Dick is currently showing Cass how to do what appears to be a basic splits-to-spin move. “I am...working on it.”

Jason drags Tim down to flop against his other side, further crowding the enormous Lovesac, and slings an arm around Bruce’s waist as their Dad sits and doesn’t look away from the silks this time. “Proud of you, B,” he says fondly. 

“Mm,” Bruce says, and he reaches out the hand not holding his tea to pat Jason’s cheek twice. 

“Can I get up now,” Tim grumbles. “I want to try to climb the silks.”

“Not till you’re fifteen,” Jason says firmly. “New house rule.”

“You can’t do that!” Tim says hotly, shoving himself upright with difficulty while the sac does it’s damndest to swallow him whole. “What gives _you_ the right? You’re not my dad!”

“Your dad concurs,” Bruce cuts in, grinning now. 

“That’s not _fair,_ it is _age-based discrimination_ and I won’t stand for it,” Tim protests. “And _you’re_ not my dad either, technically.” He pauses, then adds, “Yet.”

“Good save,” Jason snorts. “Tim. Dude.”

“What.”

“Your birthday is in two days, dumbass.”

“I—” Tim blinks. “It is?”

“Language,” Bruce mutters halfheartedly. They ignore him, as usual. 

Jason looks like Tim just tried to tell him Mary Oliver was overrated as a literary giant of the last century. “Please tell me you didn’t forget about your own birthday. Tim. Timmothy. Timmers.”

“It’s not like I’m used to it being anything important!” Tim protests. “Also, I’ve been a little bit _distracted_ lately with the new developments, in case you hadn’t noticed. There are more important things going on.”

Jason drags his hands down his face, groaning much louder than necessary. He turns to Bruce, exasperation clear on his face. Tim is nearly clocked in the nose by the arm flung out dramatically in his direction. 

“Are you _hearing_ this shit, B?” Jason demands. _“Un_ believable. He’s lived with us for over a year already and he still forgets his own birthday. We’ve got to fix this, Bruce.”

“Years of trauma do not go away in a matter of months,” Bruce says mildly, refusing to look over at Jason. Tim can practically _feel_ the suppressed amusement radiating off of him, the traitor. 

“I’m not traumatized,” Tim snaps. He scowls at both of them. 

“Sure, baby bird,” Jason says with a sigh, as if this is an old, tired battle between them. Which it is. 

“I’m _not,”_ Tim snaps. “Just because some— _less_ than ideal parenting things happened, it doesn’t mean they were nearly bad enough for _that_. It’s not like I was beat up, or starved, or had to watch my parents—” Tim’s voice catches in his throat, his brain grinding to a halt. He quickly redirects, skips tracks, scrambles to change the subject. “I’m not traumatized,” he repeats, tiredly now. “I’m just me. I’m working through the issues I have with Dinah and all of you, I function just fine, thanks, and I’m going to go get some food before patrol. If you want a sandwich or something, text me.” Tim rolls off the Lovesac and speed-walks over to the stairs, not giving either of them a chance to respond. He can’t handle this conversation right now. He just needs to go cool off.

 _You need to **cool off,**_ his father’s voice says, echoing in his head unbidden. There's the ghost of hands on his shoulders, pushing. Gripping like iron. _No, you don’t get any jacket. Out. Maybe the cold will help you be more ready to come back in and show me some respect. You have to understand there are consequences if you’re going to act out of control._

 _Nope, not doing this,_ Tim thinks, mentally swiping the memory into a box. _Not today._ The grandfather clock swings shut behind him with a click, and Tim focuses all of his attention firmly on the cheese and mustard sandwich he’s about to devour. Everything? Is going to be _fine_. 

* * *

Jason throws himself backwards against the Lovesac, groaning. He squeezes his eyes shut. “That could have gone better.”

“Sorry,” Bruce says, sounding it. He twists around where he sits, reaching down to take Jason’s hand and squeeze it in his. “That one was on me. I should have been more careful about my wording.” 

Jason waves his other hand at Bruce. “Nah, it was a team effort. I was going a little overboard. I should have remembered Tim is more sensitive right now.”

“No, you should _all_ just be having a normal, happy, week,” Bruce says. “It’s not your fault that life seems determined to drop kick this family every time things are going well. But we always make it through in the end, hey?” He gives Jason’s hair a quick ruffle. 

“Yeah, B,” Jason says, opening his eyes with a small smile. “We do. Tim...Tim’ll be all right, right? He’s not gonna—I mean. He’ll be okay, after...”

“He will,” Bruce says, calm and sure. “We’ll all make sure of it. However long it takes. Tim’s smart, and strong, and resilient. He’ll come through okay.”

“Okay,” Jason says. “Okay, B. Thanks.”

“Always, Jaybird,” Bruce says. “Come on. Let’s go get the monkeys down from their trees over there. If we don’t start getting ready for patrol, we’ll be late to meet Gordon.”

* * *

Tim’s whipping through empty space in intentional freefall, his cape flying out dramatically the way he always loves. He’s in midair over an alley, he’s reaching out, hands slapping down on the roof edge and rolling his momentum into a smooth vault, and he tucks into a roll and comes out the other side running. 

This is one of his favorite parts of the nightlife, the freerunning and parkour. Dick and Jason have spent the last several months teaching him more of it, building on Tim’s endurance and the basics he learned running around Gotham alone. He’s no equal to them yet, but he can still fly from roof to roof now without getting left behind in the middle of a fight. Bruce has recently started trusting Tim to patrol on his own here and there, too, when nothing big seems to be going on during a certain night. Like today. Bruce is currently perched above a drug lord’s hideout, waiting for a certain meeting to go down that probably won’t happen for a couple of hours yet. Tim started getting antsy, Bruce made a few quips, and then a few minutes later Bruce released him to go make the rounds of the neighborhood so they don’t have to later and can just head straight home. 

Cass is somewhere nearby, he knows. She drifts, each night, sometimes over this part of the city, sometimes over there, changing like the wind. She likes to pick a family member to shadow, make a game of it. And tonight she picked Tim. He can’t help the way that makes him feel warm, even in the slightly chilly drizzle that Gotham decided to spit on them tonight. 

Then he catches a flash of purple. 

_Bingo,_ Tim thinks. He spins on the ball of one foot and _leaps_. 

* * *

Fourteen minutes later, it’s less of a _bingo_ and more of a _god, I regret slacking on cardio._ Tim still hasn’t managed to catch up to the unknown figure, because they seem to be just as quick and agile as he is. He could use his grapple, sure, but he only gets one shot. They’ll hear it if he anchors it anywhere near where they are, and Tim knows he wouldn’t catch them before they had a chance to split and go to ground. He’s got to make that shot count. 

He toyed briefly with the idea of calling Bruce in, or one of the others, but there’s no point at the moment. Nothing seems particularly dangerous. He’s just tailing, not engaging. And everyone is busy, except possibly Cass, but since she’s either occupied with something that came up or already tailing Tim like a shadow, there’s no point in asking for her help. 

Then the figure stops. He finally gets a good look at them from the back—no more simple flashes of an arm, or hood, or a flutter of the sweeping cloak as it whips around a fire escape. 

Gotcha. 

Tim perches on the edge of the same roof, landing lightly enough he makes no sound. He peeks just far enough around an ancient AC unit to take in the scene. Purple Person is...not doing much yet. They dropped some kind of slouchy bag on the ground and are just staring at something nearby, maybe a building? They’re small. Smaller than Tim had been expecting. He still can’t tell if it’s a boy or a girl or something in between or off the charts entirely under the hooded cloak, but whoever they are, they’re about Tim’s size. Maybe just a hair taller than Cass, although it’s hard to know their real height under the fabric. 

The way Tim sees it, there are a few options here.

Option A is that this is just a random citizen with a little bit of parkour skill and a lot of guts who decided they wanted to be the next vigilante to pop up in Gotham. They’re flying solo, don’t know what they’re doing, really, and haven’t been trained. They’re probably going to insert themselves into situations at the worst possible times and get themselves hurt or killed if someone doesn’t talk sense into them. Kind of stupid, but mostly harmless, and Tim has to respect their sheer chutzpah if Option A ends up being the case. 

Option B is Gotham having a new meta on the scene. This could go either way—depending on powers, motives, and training, a meta could either be on the side of justice and help out (despite Batman’s grouchiness about it, he doesn’t actually have control over _every_ meta in the city) or they could wreak absolute havoc. If that’s the side they choose, then Tim and the rest of the Bats are going to have to take them down, and fast. The last time a rogue meta villain had popped onto the scene, seven apartment buildings had been destroyed near Crime Alley before they got the meta subdued and taken into custody. Bruce—through WE’s charitable foundations—paid for better housing to replace them, of course, at no cost to any former tenants, but it was all terribly inconvenient, and it was a miracle no one had died. Option B is not fun. Tim hopes it’s not Option B. 

Option C is the possibility that Gotham has a new villain that’s aiming for a spot in the Batman’s Rogue Gallery, and craving some general garden-variety infamy among the populace. No one is stupid enough at this point to try to challenge the Joker’s position at the Peak of All Supervillany, Forever, according to Some People (ignoring, like...all the supervillains that Superman and the rest of the Justice League fights every Tuesday like clockwork, Tim supposes). 

This is, in hindsight, where Tim probably should have called for backup. But the figure doesn’t look all that imposing, and besides, it’s not like he _knows_ they’re mean or a villain anyway. Maybe it’s just some teenager aiming to graffiti Gotham who likes the anonymity in the face of security cameras that wearing a masked costume affords. Who knows? 

And Tim has been having a pretty good run as Robin recently. He’s taken down plenty of henchmen and villains by now, both solo and with his family. He can handle first contact with _one_ single caped figure on a boring old rooftop. 

* * *

He _cannot_ handle first contact with Purple Person, as it turns out. 

Don’t get him wrong, it actually goes pretty well for about half a minute. He slips soundlessly across the roof towards the mystery figure, making sure he’s balanced and ready with just enough steel in his pose to say _don’t mess with me, I know what I’m doing_ without accidentally saying _I challenge you to a duel! En garde!_ That was one of the first lessons Jason had insisted on teaching him after the first night Tim hit the streets for real as Robin. 

“Hey,” he says, aiming for casual and landing somewhere more like awkward teenage boy who’s trying to sound older than he is. _Whatever_.

The figure whirls. Stares for a moment, one hand out to the side, one held close to their side, slipping under the cloak. God, Tim hopes this person doesn’t have a gun. That’s just what he needs tonight, on top of everything else this week. 

“Who—oh,” the figure says, muffled through what looks like a repurposed ski mask. “Robin.” Maybe a girl? Their voice is a little on the high side. But then, Tim doesn’t have a lot of room to talk. His still hasn’t dropped for _real_ yet, and it’s a source of constant teasing from Jason and Dick. 

“Uh,” Tim says. “Hi.” He forces himself not to shift his weight from foot to foot. _Focus, Tim._ “So,” he goes on. “Heard on the grapevine that there’s a new cape running around. Nice to finally meet you in person.”

“Did you,” Purple Person says. “Neato.” From their tone, it sounds like they think it’s anything but. “Can’t say I feel the same. I can’t have you messing up my plans, however cool it might be that I’m meeting BatWatch-turned-Boy-Wonder tonight. I don’t have _time_ for this, dude.”

Damn. Shit, fuck, _and_ damn. That sounds like a villain introduction. Sometimes Tim hates his luck.

“What, can’t take a few minutes off to meet the neighbors?” Tim asks, snorting. _Keep it light, keep them talking, maybe hit the panic button in your gauntlet. Better safe than sorry._

Tim’s finger finds its way to the hidden spot and presses down as best he can while trying not to visibly move much. He hopes it was enough.

“I’m kind of on a deadline,” Purple Person says. “And I don’t want to hurt you. I can’t guarantee there aren’t people after me right now, so...scram. The quicker I get this done, the quicker I’ll be out of your hair.”

Okay, well, that could go either way. Maybe this is just a person in trouble, trying to deal with it in an...unconventional way. It’s not like _Tim_ can judge. Or they’re tangled up in something criminal and have a rival gang after them or something. Or maybe they pissed off the Joker. You never know in Gotham. 

Man, Superman never has to deal with this kind of stuff. Why is it always them?

Stall, Tim thinks. “Maybe I can help,” he blurts out. _Oh, Tim,_ _you idiot,_ he berates himself. _Why was that your first thought? This person could be a villain! And you just offered to HELP?_

“Appreciate the offer,” Purple Person says, turning away now and scooping up their bag for a moment. It vanishes under their cloak in seconds. “But _pass_. I’m fine on my own. Like I said, I’ll be out of your hair soon enough.”

“But—”

“See ya, Boy Wonder,” they say, and step towards the roof’s edge. 

_They don’t have a grapple,_ Tim thinks, and _They could die, they’re going to jump to get out of this conversation and they could die, I can’t let anyone else die,_ and Tim is shouting “No, wait!” and reaching out before he realizes he’s even started moving.

This is where things go _really_ wrong, because the figure spins, startled at the shout, and sees Tim sprinting, and then there’s just _movement_ , and some ducking and rolling and muffled shouting for a few seconds, and then the next thing Tim knows, he’s on his back against the rough rooftop, the hood has fallen away to reveal Purple Person’s—blond, apparently? And curly. And _long_.—hair, sticking out from under the mask, and Tim has just enough presence of mind to start to ask, “Who are—” before there’s a loud thud of boots nearby and the sound of Batman’s familiar growl. 

Purple Person freezes for a moment. Tim can see the genuine fear flooding their eyes, see the panic rise. They’re a cornered animal now, and their body is like a coiled spring against Tim, and Tim realizes that he is in a spectacularly bad position right now. He can see Batman out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t dare to move at this point, much less speak. 

“Who are you,” Batman snarls. 

No response. Purple Person has turned into an ice statue. 

“Let Robin _go,”_ Batman warns, then, and takes a single step forward. 

Tim feels the tension shift, and he _knows_ the panic in the air, knows what’s radiating off of the person holding him down now, and he realizes what’s going to happen half a second before it does. 

There’s an arm swinging up, frantic, _frantic_ eyes, eyes that are definitely too young and too wide to be any kind of threat right now, and he hears a quiet, “I’m _so_ sorry,” and then something hard and rough smashes into his temple and Tim is out like a _light_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dick on aerial silks, three months later, at a Wayne Family gala while Bruce tries his hardest not to watch so he doesn’t have a heart attack: https://youtu.be/WelMfm5mhss
> 
> Oh boy, what is Steph doing? Guess you'll have to wait to find out. :) If you want a hint at what Steph is going to be like in this fic, listen to "Hit the Ground Running" by Alice Merton. 
> 
> Sorry I haven't replied to your comments on Ch. 4 yet, I have been seeing them and I love you all so much, your comments are making me so happy and it's SO awesome to hear all of your thoughts. I just haven't been mentally up to doing much writing or replying for the past couple of days, I just started therapy bc of how much writing all of this has been Pulling Up Things, you know? So I'm working on it slowly. Take care of yourselves! You're doing great and I believe in you all!
> 
> Drink something, eat if you haven't recently, take any meds you need, and be nice to yourself today! I'm proud of you! <3


	6. home is where you go to rest your bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poor Tim finally gets some forced rest. Also, I'm chronically unable to stop dropping references to literature and writers I love. Sue me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a shorter chapter, but it felt like an acceptable cutoff point. I may or may not get the next one up tomorrow, because it's dnd night!!! for the first time in MONTHS! and we'll probably go till midnight. So we'll see!
> 
>  **Content Warning:** mentions of throwing up/puking scattered a few times around the chapter. 
> 
> Chapter title is from "Home" by Gabrielle Aplin.

His head _hurts_. 

_So_ bad _._

Tim groans so quietly it’s almost inaudible. He doesn’t want to feel this. Why does his head hurt so _much?_ What’s going on?

“Robin? Robin.” He knows that voice. It’s familiar. But it’s so loud. Can’t whoever it is be a little quieter? Tim’s head is going to splinter soon, at this rate.

There are a couple of sharp taps on his cheekbone. 

“Come on, Robin. I need you to wake up. Let me see your eyes. It’s important, sweetheart.”

“Nnh,” Tim gets out. He tries to shift a little and _boy,_ was _that_ a bad idea. He’ll just stay still for the next twenty years. Yeah! That’s a fantastic plan. 

“Tim!” The voice says, more sharply, and _oh_ . Tim knows who it is now, that’s _Batman,_ and Robin has to listen to Batman. 

_Batman. B. Bruce_. 

“B’ce,” Tim groans. 

“Come on, Tim, open your eyes. You can do it. Let’s keep the time under a minute, so Agent A and I don’t have to panic quite so much.” 

It takes a couple more seconds of screwing up his courage, but Tim finally drags his eyelids up. A dark figure swims lazily around in his field of vision, leaning over him. A large hand settles on Tim’s cheek. 

“There you are,” Batman murmurs. “I’m sorry, you’re not going to like this, but I have to check.” A second later, Tim is being _stabbed_ by bright light, _oh_ _god holy shit_ , his eye is on _fire_. 

“No!” he gasps, shoving at whatever parts of Batman he can reach. But Batman flicks the penlight into his other eye as quickly as possible, relentless, before finally clicking the device off. Tim groans. That’ll teach _him_ to open his eyes on command ever again. 

“I know, sweetheart,” Batman soothes, and one hand is on Tim’s face, thumb stroking his cheekbone, and the other begins carding through his hair. “I’m sorry. I know how unpleasant that is. But I had to check.” 

“What happened?” Tim has no clue how he ended up flat on his back, or why Batman is being so gentle, but his head hurts like the absolute dickens and he figures he can take a good guess. 

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Bruce asks.

“Uh…” Tim starts. He squeezes his eyes shut harder. “I was...talking with the eggplant girl.”

“Eggplant—“

“New cape,” Tim mumbles. “The—the one we don’t know. Saw her.” 

“It’s a female?”

“Think so,” Tim says. “Dunno for sure.” 

“Do you know what happened after you talked?” 

Tim tries, he tries really hard, but his brain feels like molasses and potatoes right now and he just _can’t._

“It’s okay,” Bruce says. “Don’t hurt yourself. Retrograde amnesia is normal after a blow to the head. She got you good with that brick, bud.” 

“Oh, is that what happened,” Tim says, too tired to really be surprised. “Did you get her?”

Bruce smiles gently. “Afraid not, kiddo. That can be a problem for another night. I was more worried about _you_.”

“‘M’fine,” Tim says dismissively, automatically flushing, and he tries to sit up just as Cass and Flamebird land on the roof with them. Tim makes it about six inches off the ground before the world takes a nauseating swoop around him and he falls back, Bruce’s hand is the only thing keeping his head from hitting the roof again. 

“Holy _shit,_ baby bird,” Flamebird says, sounding as stressed as Tim’s ever heard him on patrol. He hits the roof on his knees next to Tim, hands hovering over Tim’s head and neck like they don’t know what to do with themselves. “Are you okay?”

“Got vibe checked,” Tim mumbles, a little grouchily. 

Flamebird snorts. “Yeah,” he says, and his hands find one of Tim’s. He grips it tightly. “I heard.” 

_“C,”_ Bruce says sharply, and Tim looks over to see Cass whip around from where she was attempting to creep toward the edge of the roof silently. Bruce has three fingers firmly hooked into her belt, and _wow_ , Tim’s gonna say it again, Bruce is such a _dad_ sometimes. 

Bruce, appropriately, shoots her one of his Looks. “Don’t even _think_ about it. When we go after them, we go together. I don’t care how much training you have,” he says. 

Cass scowls, her shoulders puffing up like an angry bird. Tim tries not to laugh. He doesn’t want to hurt his head more. 

“C,” Tim says, and he reaches his free hand out. She drops instantly into a worried posture instead, and is by his side in three long strides. _Sorry,_ she signs, first scraping harsh circles against her sternum over and over, and Tim frowns. 

_Why,_ he signs back. Bruce is quietly talking to Alfred somewhere behind Tim’s head, and Tim figures they’re heading home for the night. He’s nothing but a liability like this.

 _Not here,_ Cass signs, and she looks so guilty about it that Tim wishes he could sit up and give her a proper hug. 

“No,” Tim says, “it’s not your fault. I didn’t call for backup. You were busy with other things, and I don’t need a babysitter.”

 _“That’s_ debatable,” Flamebird says, fake-scowling.

“Hey—“ Tim starts, and then he’s screwing his eyes shut and taking several deep breaths as a wave of nausea crashes over him more ten times more strongly than before. He feels clammy, suddenly, and all he can focus on is carefully, so carefully, swallowing back his rising saliva. 

“B,” Flamebird says, urgently. 

Large, gentle hands shift under Tim, hoisting him up in one quick movement, as gentle as possible. 

“It’s okay,” Batman murmurs, somewhere close to Tim’s right ear. “I’ve got you. If you need to throw up, that’s all right. We’re going to get you back to the Batmobile, and head home so we can get you settled. Just hold on a little longer.” 

Tim tangles his hands in Batman’s cape and cowl as best he can, and Batman tightens one arm around him like a steel vise. 

“We’re going to jump one time,” Batman warns. “And then we’ll be right by the car. I promise that’s it.” 

“Okay,” Tim breathes. He’s struggling to hang onto any thought for much more than a few seconds. He knows Bruce has him. He knows his head hurts. He knows he’s going home. 

“You two first,” Bruce says, twisting slightly. “Get in the backseat and buckle in. We’re driving as soon as I get Robin secured.”

“Got it, bossman,” comes Jason’s voice, and then Tim hears the faint hiss of two grapples firing. 

“I’ve got you,” Bruce repeats, one last time, and then he leaps. 

The moment Batman’s boots hit the alley pavement, Tim shoves at Batman frantically and twists around in his hold just fast enough to heave onto the ground instead of down the front of the Batsuit. A little still manages to get on Batman’s boots, though, and Tim cringes. 

“Sorry,” Tim gasps, tears streaming from his eyes while his head does it’s best to split in two like a flannel-shirt-man’s log at some Yankee Candle mountain lodge. 

“It’s fine,” Batman says gently. “You can’t help it. It’ll wash right off.” He brushes Tim’s flyaway strands off his sweaty face. “You think you’re done?”

Tim nods, letting himself sag bonelessly in Batman’s arms while they take the last few steps around the hood of the Batmobile. Tim is gently deposited in the seat, and he keeps his eyes closed and head as still as possible as he’s buckled in. Then Batman is hopping in the driver’s side, and latching his own seatbelt, and they’re off.

* * *

The verdict, after a several neurological checks ("Who's the current president, Tim?" is met with an instantaneous mumble of "Annoying Orange", which has Jason in stitches on one of the spinning stools before Tim realizes what he even _said_ ), is that Tim absolutely, positively, _definitely_ has a significant concussion, and is benched for the next two weeks minimum.

“That’s not fair,” Tim tries to protest, then immediately winces underneath the jumbo-size ice pack Jason dug out of the freezer for him. 

“You’re extremely lucky that your skull isn’t _fractured,”_ Bruce scolds. “Just because you don’t have a broken skull or a brain bleed, that doesn’t mean you’re all right. We don’t mess around with head injuries.”

“Two weeks!” Tim hisses. 

“A month, most likely,” Alfred interjects, sternly. “Master Timothy, you have a _traumatic brain injury._ You cannot just brush that off like so much lint. It is very likely that you’ll continue to experience added symptoms for days to weeks, and we will not allow you to put yourself in unnecessary danger in the meantime, no matter what risks you may have been used to taking in the past.” 

Bruce stiffens. “Tim,” he says, voice carefully even. “Did you ever get a head injury before that you forgot to mention?”

“No,” Tim says. “Not that I know of, anyway. No promises for the stuff that happened before my brain developed enough to store memories, though.”

“Okay,” Bruce says. Relief is clear in his voice. “I know you learned the basics of head injury care before, but since it’s _your_ head that’s been jimmied, I want to remind you that you’re being babysat for the next 24 hours, and not a minute less. You’re in for a rough ride, considering how hard you were hit and the fact that you lost consciousness.”

“It was only for less than a minute,” Tim grumbles. Cass flicks him hard in the side, and Tim clumsily bats at her hand. “Ow, Cass!” 

Cass sticks out her tongue, and pointedly presses her arm down harder across Tim’s torso from her spot curled up next to him on the gurney. 

“God, we should have never given you Tylenol,” Jason moans, even as Tim knows he doesn’t mean it. “This was easier when you had less brain capacity to argue. _Tim._ Shut up and let us take care of you.”

And Jason’s calm, just a little exasperated, but there’s an undercurrent of Very Real Stress in his voice, and Tim instantly feels guilty. They’re all _right_ , and he knows it. He’s just mad that he’s gotten himself knocked out of commission, on top of everything else going. But it’s not fair to be difficult for all of them. They’re just worried.

Tim shuts up, and lets Bruce carry him upstairs to bed without any further protest. 

“Alfred and I are switching off sitting with you for the rest of the night,” Bruce says, quietly. Tim appreciates it. The sound of Bruce’s feet on the creaking stairs is bad enough right now. “Three hours of sleep, then you answer some questions, standard protocol.”

“‘Kay,” Tim mumbles. “Sorry if I’m cranky.”

“Oh, I fully expect it,” Bruce chuckles. “You’re worse than Jason, sometimes.”

“Hey Bruce,” Tim says, as they’re walking through his doorway.

“Mm?”

“Head feels weird.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

_“Bruce.”_

“Sorry, Timmy,” Bruce says, gently depositing Tim on the sheets and pulling the duvet up. He drags Tim’s desk chair over and plops down close to Tim’s head. “Weird how?”

Tim frowns. “Jiggly.”

“That’s...not excellent,” says Bruce. He runs his hand over Tim’s forehead once, twice, leaves it resting at the edge of Tim’s hairline. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I know concussions are lousy. I’m with you.”

Tim closes his eyes, sighs. Leans just a little bit into Bruce’s touch. 

“Can you just…” he starts. “Please promise me you won’t wake me up and make me recite the Periodic table or something. I just wanna sleep.”

“Okay, Tim,” Bruce says agreeably. “Simple questions. I promise I won’t make you recite any lists unless I really need to.”

“Good. Okay.” Tim shifts more onto his side and burrows into his nest of several pillows, wedging himself firmly in the corner where the walls met, as usual. 

“Hey, no, not tonight,” Bruce says. He drags Tim out of the crevice gently by the arm and leg of his sweats. 

“Nnf!” Tim protests. 

“No,” Bruce repeats, keeping one firm hand on Tim so he physically can’t wiggle his way back over. “If you startle awake or move in your sleep, we can’t have you hitting your head on the wall so soon after getting a brain injury. Subsequent impacts cause more damage more easily. Not tonight. Or for the next several. 

“This sucks,” Tim mutters, as he shoves his head between two pillows instead. “Can I at least have Nova?”

“Yes,” Bruce says, and he smiles at Tim. “Jason has her shut in his room with Ace and Peanut. We didn’t want her getting too worried over you down in the cave while we were checking you over.”

Tim hums. The night suddenly doesn’t seem quite as bad as it had a few seconds ago.

“I’ll go get her,” says Bruce, careful not to scrape the chair against the floor as he stands. “Will you be okay for a couple of minutes by yourself?”

“I’d roll my eyes,” Tim drawls, around a mouthful of pillow, “if it didn’t hurt my head so much. Please get out.” 

“Alright, alright,” Bruce says, in mock offense. “I know when I’m not wanted.” He leans down and presses a quick swooping kiss to the tiny patch of Tim’s neck not covered by the enormous ice pack Tim’s still holding to his head like a lifeline. 

“Five more minutes of the ice, and then your skin needs a break to warm up,” Bruce whispers before straightening back up and heading for the door.

“Yessir,” Tim sighs. “Bruce?”

Bruce’s hand catches the doorframe and he pauses, looking back at the Tim-shaped lump on the bed. “Yeah, bud?” 

“Bruce. Hey. You _came_.”

And Tim means _you carried me when I couldn’t walk and I felt safe,_ and he means _I got myself hurt again and you made it okay,_ and he means _I pressed the button and you actually showed up, and I never had that before, and I’m still learning every day that you meant it that day you brought me in from the cold._

Bruce smiles, and the corners of his eyes crinkle up in the particular way that no one but his family ever gets to see. 

“Always, Tim,” Bruce says. “I’ll _always_ come when you call. As many times as you need.”

* * *

The next day is basically a wash for Tim. Half the time he can’t think more than a few coherent thoughts in a row before he starts feeling too foggy and scrambled to care anymore. For someone who’s used to a high-speed brain, it’s torture. 

Luckily, Tim is so bored it trumps pretty much every other problem he has at the moment. His head still hurts, his eyes get sore from light (thank _god_ for blackout curtains, and for Bruce insisting that they be in every room in the manor way back when), too much sound makes both of those things worse, and his thinking ability is basically powdered sugar right now. 

He can’t work out, he can’t read, he can’t work on cases, he can’t play with the dogs, he can’t really go outside his dark bedroom, and he can’t use any devices with screens. 

“Jason,” Tim hisses, knowing that in this family that will be enough to catch his brother’s attention through the ever-so-slightly-cracked door.

“Hey,” Jason say softly, poking his head into the room. Tim squints against the shaft of light from the hallway. “What’s up? I was just about to go get your lunch from Alfred.”

“Please, no,” Tim says, because he may not have thrown up again since the alley, but the nausea comes back with a vengeance every time he so much as looks at food. Breakfast that morning had been...an experience. 

“Relax, dude, it’s just broth and some oyster crackers,” Jason says, stepping into the room fully and shutting the door behind him. “Alfred knows what’s up.”

“I’ll try it, but no promises,” Tim warns. 

“All we can ask, baby bird. But what did you need? I’m not sneaking you your phone.”

“I’m not gonna ask you to.”

“Wow.” Jason blinks. “You must _really_ be feeling lousy. Not even your phone?”

“Jason,” Tim says, miserably. 

“Sorry.”

“I’m so bored I want to cry,” Tim says. He shifts restlessly in his blanket nest. “I don’t want to watch anything. I don’t want any screens within eyesight, I think I’ll lose my mind. But I gotta do something. I can’t think straight enough to read, though, and I’m not supposed to be straining my eyes anyway.”

“That’s rough, buddy.”

“Do you ever _not_ quote Avatar?”

“It’s always time to quote Avatar, little brother.”

“Jason, please. Do you have any suggestions. Bruce even made Nova leave for a while because she needs to run.”

Jason sighs. “Let me get your tray from Alfie, okay, and then if you promise you’ll do your damnedest to eat that broth, I’ll stay and read you some more Flavia De Luce books.”

“Are you serious?”

“Dead serious. But you have to drink broth and water. I don’t care about the crackers.”

“Deal,” Tim says. “But you can’t get mad if I puke. I promise won’t do it on purpose or out of spite.”

“That’s fair,” says Jason. “Okay, cool. Be right back.”

He comes back a short while later with Cass in tow and three books in his arm, and they spend most of the day curled up in Tim’s room. Cass perches on top of the wardrobe with a couple spare pillows and a comforter stolen right off of Bruce’s bed. Jason is in the armchair, plopped in the position of honor, as he reads out loud all the convoluted chemistry and murder-solving escapades of 11-year-old Flavia. Tim keeps his eyes closed and lets the stories and Jason’s voice distract him, drifting with the ebb and flow of his lagging brain. When he dozes, Jason never hesitates to backtrack and make sure to cover what Tim missed. 

Bruce sticks his head in at one point, mid-afternoon, and smiles when he catches sight of all three of his children currently living at home hanging in Tim’s room together. 

“Hey, B,” Jason whispers, waving him in. “Tim just dozed off again. We’re being quiet.”

Cass leans over the edge of the wardrobe and holds a finger to her lips, waggling her eyebrows at Bruce. He mirrors her gesture and gets a soft laugh in return, almost too quiet to hear. 

Bruce ducks down to plant a firm kiss right on Jason’s forehead, brushing the thick, curly bangs up and out of the way with one hand. 

“You’re a wonderful big brother, Jay,” Bruce says, and Jason maybe blushes. It’s hard to tell in the dim room. 

“Get off,” Jason complains, still in a whisper. “I remember how lousy it was when I got concussed at that one track meet. I’m not gonna let Tim lose his mind from boredom before he can even do middle school math again.” 

“Hm,” Bruce says, smiling. He turns now, taking in the absolute chaos that is Tim’s bed. The boy in question is still at the center of his nest—two feet away from the wall, at Bruce’s insistence—and looks as comfortable as one can be with a concussion and one arm wrapped around a puke bowl. Bruce can’t even count how many pillows and blankets are on the bed surrounding Tim at this point, many of them clearly not Tim’s, originally. 

Jason catches his raised eyebrow. “Cass has been very enthusiastic about making sure Tim is comfortable,” he says diplomatically. 

Cass makes a noise of agreement from up on her perch. 

_Safe,_ she signs. 

“Good job, princess,” Bruce whispers in her direction, with a thumbs up. She beams as brightly as he’s ever seen and give him a double-thumbs up and two-fingered salute in return. 

_Dick must be teaching her,_ Bruce thinks, amused. Good for both of them, honestly. 

“When Tim goes to sleep for the night, we’re meeting in the kitchen,” Bruce tells Jason and Cass. “Dick is getting here at 8:30 p.m. Tomorrow’s a big day, and even if he’s got a concussion, Tim’s going to have a good birthday if takes a miracle. We’ve done more with worse odds, I think we can manage a nice day.”

“Hell yes,” Jason says, grinning. “It’s going to be great.”

Tim sleeps on, cells healing, brain slowly rebuilding, and Bruce would bet almost his entire fortune that Tim has forgotten, again, that tomorrow is his birthday. 

“One of these years,” he says, solemnly. “One of these years, Tim’s going to value his birthday the way the rest of us do. One of these times he won’t forget. And we’re going to have a separate, second party for just that.”

“Amen,” Jason agrees fervently. “You gotta celebrate when you make a whole ‘nother trip around the chaos orb. The universe does its damndest every day to yeet us off this absolute unit of a death world, and every single day we say ‘no thanks, not yet’ one more time, and that’s beautiful and demands to be appreciated.”

“Lord give me strength,” Bruce mutters, looking upwards, “to learn the language that my children have been cursed to speak.”

“Oh, sure, Mr. You’re Killing Me, You’re Killing Your Father. As if you don’t keep up on all the memes.”

“Memes are one thing,” Bruce says sagely, as he opens the bedroom door and steps one foot out into the hall. “You all are making an entire new language with all your layers of references. It’s a full-time job to try to keep up.”

“And yet you do it anyway,” Jason grins. “Because you _loooooove_ us.”

“Of course,” says Bruce, and he purposefully lets sincerity ring in his soft words, just to watch Jason squirm.

 _“B,”_ he complains. 

“I love you, Jason,” Bruce sing-songs. “And you, Cass. Give Tim an extra hug for me when he wakes up. I’ll be back in a while.”

Bruce quietly shuts the door behind him, making sure the latch catches without too much noise, before striding down the hall like a man on a mission. Tim has just about had the week or two from hell, lately, and Bruce will be damned if his kid doesn’t have a good birthday to at least distract him from some of it. He can’t fix all the problems for Tim, no matter how much Bruce wishes he could. 

But they’re a _family_ . And when something is wrong, family is there. They’re going to circle the wagons, cobble together a magnificent cake, make Tim happy for a day, and make sure _everyone_ gets a reminder that they’re a team. That they’re in this great big crazy life _together_. 

_Dead Februaries, foggy breaths, and lost paths._ _Winter_ , Bruce recites somewhere from distant memory, _is a season._ And Tim is not going to go through it alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure how I feel about the chapter, it seems kind of weak compared to what I'm used to writing, but like. It's written, it's good enough, it's my baby, I hope you like it anyway!
> 
> PLEASE BE GENTLE WITH YOURSELVES TODAY. Say something nice to yourself. Hydrate, eat, take any meds you need. Go see your pet if you have one. I hope tonight treats you well! <3


	7. this is a place where i feel at home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 2 post concussion is rough, but they still make plans for Tim's birthday. Jason has a Time, the dogs are wonderful, hot cocoa for all, and gratuitous LOTR referencing is included because the author is Weak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's so late! I kept getting distracted by family bickering lol. I haven't really edited...anything, really, so forgive any typos or weird sentences, I'll come back and edit in a day or two hopefully!
> 
> Chapter title is from "To Build a Home" by The Cinematic Orchestra.

There’s a gentle weight across his legs as he slowly drifts awake. One of Tim’s hands feels around a bit until it lands suddenly on soft fur, and, _ah. That’s right._ Tim smiles softly, eyes still shut against the day, and the little bit of tension that had crept in quickly melts from his body. Tim stokes his fingers a few times over Nova’s fur before finally opening his eyes.

His head still hurts, but not as badly as before. So that’s good. Tim can feel the bruising making the side of his head stiff and swollen, and decides against further exploration after he prods it just once with his free hand. Yep, still bruised. _Resist monkey brain urge to poke it again._

There’s a noise to his right, and Tim rolls over carefully, while Nova _whuffs_ softly and readjusts herself to curl up against his stomach. He wraps one arm over her neck.

The room is dim, but someone shifted the edges of the blackout curtains so there’s just enough light coming in to see. Dick is sprawled out like a starfish in the armchair Bruce and Alfred had slept in the night before, snoring quietly with his head over one armrest, one leg over the other, and his other foot sticking up over the top of the backrest.

Tim’s been around the Waynes long enough that Dick’s sleeping habits rarely surprise him anymore, but there’s _no way_ that can possibly be comfortable. Tim wonders how long Dick has been there. He has a vague memory of being woken up once or twice overnight, just for a moment, and mumbling something to whoever it was, but the memory is so hazy that he couldn’t even say for sure if it was an actual human being or an alien from Jakku.

“Hey,” Tim says. No answer. _“Dick,”_ Tim tries, a little bit louder this time, and that seems to do the trick.

Dick snorts himself awake so suddenly that his leg falls off of the back of the chair and he knees himself in the chin. He groans.

“Ah, the curses of being a real-life Gumby,” Tim says, grinning.

“Tim!” Dick whips around, his face lights up with a smile. Tim watches as he rolls over the edge of the chair and hits the ground on hands and knees, before popping up at the edge of Tim’s mattress and resting his head on his hands right by Tim’s face. “Good morning, baby bird. Happy birthday! I was wondering when you’d wake up.”

“What time is it?” Tim rubs one eye.

“A little after ten,” Dick grins. “Bruce and Alfred said we had to let you sleep. SInce your noggin took a knocking.”

“Yeah. Some birthday present that was,” Tim grumbles.

“Hey,” Dick says, mock-severely. “You listen here, mister. You might have a concussion, and that might suck, but it’s still your birthday and we’re going to make it a good one, even if we can’t go to the state park like we planned.”

“We were going to go to the state park?” Tim asks, thrown. “The—the big one? Like, _Wharton Forest?”_

“Oops,” Dick says, looking a little sheepish. He nods. “Yeah. Guess it doesn’t matter that I spilled the beans, now, since we can’t go today. But yeah, we were all going to make a day of it. Bruce thought you’d enjoy getting to take some photos and hike there, since you’ve found pretty much every photo op in the parks close by.”

“A good photographer never runs out of material in nature,” Tim recites, but his eyes are getting a little watery. He swallows. “We were actually really gonna go?”

“Yeah, buddy,” Dick says, smiling more gently now. He brushes some of Tim’s hair behind his ear, smooths it down with a few passes of his hand. “We still will. Once you’re better. Bruce says we’ll pick a day and make a picnic and you can go wild. We’re all coming. It’ll be Tim’s Birthday 2.0, hopefully with no serious injuries this time.”

“Oh,” Tim says, feeling very small and very loved.

“How’s the head?” Dick asks kindly.

“Still sore. But not as bad,” Tim says, grateful for the subject change.

“You think you can get up?”

“Probably,” Tim says. “Nova! Down.” He waits a moment for Nova to hop off the bed, then pushes himself up and hangs onto the side of the mattress while he waits for the head rush to pass. Bruce sticks his head in the door, shooting Tim a smile, which Tim quickly returns, even though it pulls a bit painfully at the swollen bruising radiating out from his temple.

“Easy,” Dick says, in a tone that’s probably aiming for soothing but hits Tim as patronizing. Just a little.

“I’ve _got_ it,” he says waspishly, and pushes himself up, making it exactly two steps before he realizes that, oh, no, he _doesn’t_ got it at _all_.

Tim wobbles, tips sideways, and he doubts he could say definitively which way is up at the moment even if he was steady as a rock. The collision he’s expecting with the rug doesn’t come, though; two sets of hands are gripping, grounding, holding him steady.

Tim squeezes his eyes shut against the vertigo, arms out to the sides in a futile attempt to feel more balanced.

“Hey, we’ve got you,” Dick is soothing. “You’re all right. You’re okay. Let’s sit for a minute, huh?”

Tim doesn’t have the mental reserves to protest at this particular moment. He’s too focused on his glitching balance rising nausea. He doesn’t make a sound as he’s guided to sit limply on the floor.

“Steady breaths,” Bruce murmurs. “Deep as you can.”

Tim tries. After several rounds, it does seem to help marginally. At least he thinks he can open his mouth without throwing up now. Tim blinks his eyes open and squints at Dick, who’s crouched in front of him with concern written all over his face.

“There you are,” Dick says, hushed. “You okay?”

“Uh,” Tim says, feeling slow and stupid in a way he hadn’t ever realized was possible. This _sucked_. Concussions _suck_.

_It can’t just be physical symptoms,_ Tim grumbles to himself. _Noooo. It’s gotta be all kinds of cognitive stuff as well. I’m never running off by myself again._

Bruce’s voice comes from behind his head. “Are you having balance issues, or did you get dizzy?” Ah. He must be the arms propping Tim up. That would explain why Tim can’t see him.

Tim thinks for a moment, because that’s a good question.

“Balance,” he grits out after a second or two. “Whole world…” he scrunches up his face and flutters the fingers of one hand, hoping that Bruce will get it anyway, because Tim’s unable to find the words he needs.

“Okay,” Bruce says softly. “That’s all right. We’ll just go as slow as you need. That should get better in a day or two. Do you want to put on different clothes?”

Tim’s pajamas are pretty comfy. He frowns. “Do I have to?”

“No,” Bruce laughs. “It’s your birthday. You can do whatever you want.”

“Mm.” Tim tries so hard to muster up some enthusiasm. He’s just too foggy to manage it.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Bruce says, as he passes Tim off to Dick for a moment so he can stand up. “We’re going to go downstairs, and you’re going to have birthday breakfast in the lounge with the curtains drawn and low lighting. Alfred made strawberry and cream cheese and Nutella crepes, and you can try them if you’re feeling up to it, or we can save you some for later. There’s plenty of broth and bland foods if you want that instead, and we have protein shakes if you need them. But you’re going to eat at least a little of something, because your body has to have fuel to heal.”

“Yes sir,” Tim mumbles, and Bruce’s hands still suddenly where they’re sliding under his arms to take back over from Dick.

“Tim,” Bruce says, measured and a little sad. “Please don’t do that with me. You’re not in that situation anymore, sweetheart. You’re allowed to say no to things if you don’t want to do them. We can compromise instead on things that are important to you. I’m not trying to give you orders, Tim, I just wasn’t thinking about my wording. I’m sorry.”

Now Tim feels sick, off-balance, _and_ embarrassed, because he just slipped into old habits as easily as yanking on a well-worn sneaker and he didn’t even realize it. How many more stupid things is he going to have to spend weeks, months, years unlearning? It seems like every time he turns around, someone’s pointing out another thing he does that isn’t healthy.

Tim is sick and tired of trying to learn to be _healthy_. He just wants to be _Tim_ for a while, healthy or not. He needs a break.

“No, it’s fine,” Tim says. He tries to stamp down his crankiness. “I love crepes. I want to try them. I just wasn’t thinking, I’m half on autopilot right now.”

“All right,” Bruce says, easily. “But if you change your mind, just tell us. We’re not going to force anything on you, Tim. You’re allowed to say no, and you’re allowed to change your mind about things, and you’re allowed to be upset if you need to.”

“I know, Bruce,” Tim sighs. Bruce hugs him for a moment, then Dick joins in, sandwiching Tim in the middle of a tangle of strong, warm arms. It’s hard to stay quite so irritated when he’s being smothered in love from both sides.

“There’s a lot you can’t do right now, like watching movies, or doing much walking,” Bruce continues finally. “So no Star Wars marathons or hikes today, like we’d planned for you. Sorry, Tim. But we’ll just reschedule and celebrate with those on a different day when you’ve healed up all the way, okay?”

Tim starts to nod enthusiastically before suddenly wincing and ducking his head against Bruce’s shoulder to keep it still. _Right. Still have a concussion. I need to stop forgetting that._

_“But,”_ Dick prompts Bruce, when the pause stretches on a little too long for his liking. Tim narrowly avoids snorting at him.

“Mm. But,” Bruce goes on—and there’s definitely some amusement in his voice, Tim can _tell_ —”we came up with some things to do that should be okay for you even while you’re not feeling well. We can try some simple card and board games, if you’d like, as long as you feel up to enough thinking to manage Uno or something like checkers.”

“No Monopoly, though?” Tim asks, grinning a little even though it hurts.

_“No_ Monopoly,” Dick says, darkly. “Not again.” Bruce and Tim both laugh a little.

“No Monopoly,” Bruce confirms. “But Jason’s also willing to read to us for a few hours, if that’s something that you’d like. We can all stay together in the lounge and listen. That way you can just absorb instead of having to make your head work too hard.”

“He’s really willing to just read to all of us that whole time?” Tim asks. He knows Jason loves reading, and is great at voices. And he did read to Tim for a large chunk of the day yesterday. But that’s a _lot_. Surely Jason will get tired of it, right?

“He’d love to,” Dick says, dropping a hand onto Tim’s wild bedhead. “Jason wants you to have as good a birthday as possible, and he was saying how awesome it was that he could help that way yesterday. He’s happy to do it again.”

“But what about Cass?”

“From what she’s said, she enjoyed it just fine yesterday,” Dick says, waving one hand dismissively. “And today, I’m here to act everything out in full theater kid mode for her benefit. She’ll be able to follow along if it kills me.”

Tim takes several moments to imagine it, all of them sprawled around the lounge in their various spots, Jason’s voice bringing the story to life in their minds, Dick making use of every inch of available space to bring the story to life for their eyes. It _is_ a pretty sweet deal.

“Okay,” Tim says, suddenly feeling a little teary. What is _wrong_ with him right now?

_Get a grip, Tim. You’re 15._ Nova starts to lick at his hand, and he doesn’t know whether to giggle or start bawling like a little kid.

“In my arms, or piggy back?” Bruce asks, holding Tim steady at arm’s-length so he doesn’t have to strain to look up at Bruce.

“Piggy back,” Tim says firmly. “I have to hold on what few shreds of dignity I’ve still got.”

“Fair enough,” says Bruce with a small grin, and he kneels down while Tim wraps himself across his broad back as best he can. “You ready?” He asks, once Tim is more or less secure and Bruce has stood back up.

Tim twists his face into the junction where Bruce’s neck meets his shoulder, blocking out as much light as possible. “Yeah,” he says, a little muffled, but it’s enough for Bruce to hear.

“Okay,” Bruce says warmly. “Off we go. Nova, heel.”

They head out of Tim’s room, Dick taking an extra few seconds to grab Tim’s weighted blanket and a couple of pillows. Tim carefully measures his breathing, tries not to tense up against Bruce as even the man’s most gentle steps jar his headache into sending up sparks every second or two. _It’s okay. It’s okay. In and out, it’ll pass, it’s just till we get to the lounge, he reassures himself. Then I can ask for an ice pack again and lie still and it’ll be fine again._

They’re a couple of steps down the grand staircase when suddenly they hear the unmistakable clattering of dog claws on tile, moving fast, and then Peanut is right there, letting out two insistent barks and pawing at Bruce’s knee. Bruce stops mid-stride, tensing underneath Tim’s looped arms and glancing over at Dick. Tim unlaces his fingers and twists around to slide off of Bruce’s back before either of them even say a word.

“Tim—” Bruce starts, scrambling to keep Tim hoisted up securely, but Tim wiggles his legs free and hits the runner on the stairs, Dick already moving to steady him. Tim shoves down the pain throbbing like an iron band around his skull.

“Go,” Tim says, feeling an intense flash of jealousy followed immediately by guilt about it. He squashes both of _those_ down too, he’ll deal with them later, when he has some time to puzzle out why he’s so out of sorts today.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Bruce asks, and. And.

Tim doesn’t think he’ll ever be used to seeing such blatant, focused concern on someone else’s face just for _him_. Over a year with the Waynes, now, and it still makes Tim’s breath catch every time. He swallows against a suddenly dry throat.

“Jason needs you,” Tim says. He shoves at Bruce’s shoulder, nudging him forward. “Go, B. I’ll be fine.”

Bruce’s brows are tight, and he studies Tim’s face for a moment. Then he nods once, and looks at Peanut. “Peanut, heel. Let’s go find him.”

“Nova,” Tim calls out quickly. “Stay.” She turns from the half step she’d taken after Bruce’s quick strides, and he pulls out as big a smile as he can manage for her while he scratches her ears. “Good girl, such a good girl,” Tim murmurs. “With me.”

Nova noses his palm, shifting into position next to Tim’s leg.

“Want me to carry you?” Dick offers, looking as concerned as Bruce did.

Tim shakes his head. “No,” he grits out, sounding a lot more sure than he feels. “I’ll walk. Just hang on to me tight.”

Dick sighs. “Okay,” he acquiesces, and suddenly Tim just knows that he’s made the wrong decision.

Dick is disappointed in him, and it’s just not going to be talked about, and it’ll build and _build_ and then it’ll just—come out, and Tim can’t stand this kind of waiting anymore. It’s so much harder now than it used to be. It’s too hard to go back to the uncertainty. He doesn’t want to _do_ this. He can feel dread flooding every vein.

_But I made the decision,_ he thinks miserably. _I said I’d walk. I can’t back down now, it won’t make things better. I said I’d walk and I will. At least I won’t have failure hanging over my head on top of the judgement._

Dick makes sure his grip on Tim is secure, and then they start slowly descending the stairs. It goes well for a minute, and they make it down several steps without incident. Even if they are moving at a positively glacial pace, by Tim’s estimations.

Then on his next step downwards, Tim’s knee buckles and his vision swoops dramatically without warning, and it’s only Dick’s lightning-sharp reflexes and iron grip on Tim’s torso that keeps Tim from somersaulting down the staircase the rest of the way.

“Tim,” Dick says.

“I think I might have overestimated my abilities,” Tim pants.

“Yeah,” Dick huffs softly, half a laugh and half a scolding. “Maybe just a little bit. Will you please let me carry you the rest of the way?”

Tim bites his lip.

“For my sake, if you can’t accept it for yours,” Dick pleads. “I’m already worried enough about you and Jason today as it is.”

And _that’s_ a low blow if Tim’s ever heard one, but he has to admit it does the trick.

“Okay,” Tim says, quietly, and then he’s being hoisted smoothly into Dick’s arms and carried down the steps on the light-footed gait of dancers and acrobats. As gentle as Bruce was trying to be, he can’t quite match the fluid dance with gravity that is Dick’s stride.

Even so, Tim’s head is starting to ache more. He probably shouldn’t have gotten out of bed yet at all, if he’s being honest with himself. But he’s never had a concussion before, or even seen anyone go through one, so he doesn’t really know how they are. And he’s so used to having to just get up and get himself food and things over the years whether he’s sick or hurt or not that he’s kind of lost the ability to judge when he should or shouldn’t push himself. If he’s been worse and still not died in the end, it’s hard to convince himself that he should be more concerned about thing x or y or z.

Dick gently deposits Tim onto a waiting blanket nest in the lounge, built out of two shoved-together sofas, a mound of pillows, and an unholy amount of blankets from all over the house that Tim is sure must be Cass’s doing. Nova hops up alongside Tim when he motions for her to come, and she picks her way across his legs to settle in between him and the back of one of the sofas.

“Thanks, Dick,” Tim says quietly, as he starts doing his level best to bury his head in as many layers as possible.

“It’s my pleasure,” Dick says, digging Tim right back out.

Tim whines at him. Just a little.

“Sorry, Timbo,” Dick says, not sounding very sorry at all. “I don’t want you to suffocate. Is it the light or the pain?”

“Hurts,” Tim grumbles. He’s loathe to admit it. Even though he knows he has to tell people if he wants painkillers, or needs ice, or just wants a hug. It’s just...hard.

Sometimes he misses how simple things were when he was on his own.

But now—Dick is hugging him, all of a sudden, and now pressing a feather-light kiss to his sore, battered temple. His hand gently brushes Tim’s messy curls away from the bruising before Dick pushes himself back onto his heels and looks Tim in the eye.

“I’m going to run to the kitchen and get you an ice pack or two, okay little brother?” he asks. “And two Tylenol. I’m sure Alfie can spare them.”

Tim nods. Something in his chest _aches_ , a mix of feelings he doesn’t know how to name.

“I’m not leaving you,” Dick adds. “Okay? I’m coming right back. I promise.”

“I know,” Tim says, but he’s grateful anyway. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Dick says, patting Tim’s shoulder and draping the weighted blanket over Tim as evenly as he can.

“Love you,” Tim says, suddenly. Dick freezes for a moment, and then a beautiful, big smile slides across his features, all the way up to the crinkles at the edges of his eyes.

“I love you too, baby bird,” Dick says, and kisses Tim right on the tip of the nose. Then he spins on the ball of one foot and sprints out the door, waving just before he dips out of sight.

Tim sighs and burrows a little harder into the nest. It’s okay. He’s okay. He’s _fine_. No one is abandoning him, and Tim’s head is going to feel better soon, and he’s sure Jason is just fine. He has to be. He has _Bruce_.

Tim counts his breaths in tens for a while, trying to relax, and he actually manages to drift a bit. Just as his eyes are starting to close for real, there’s a small noise from the doorway, like a shoe scuffing the wooden frame. Tim’s eyes fly open again, and he looks up, spots Bruce in the doorway with one arm around Jason and one around a cautious-looking Cass. And Jason looks—

He looks pale as a ghost. He looks absolutely _wrecked_ , Tim can see even from here how shaky Jason still is, how haunted he looks. Peanut is pressed tightly against Jason’s side, not moving a muscle unless Jason does.

Cass slips around Bruce and Jason, heading immediately over to perch on one of the loveseats with her arms tightly wrapped around one of the throw pillows and her knees up to her chest. Her eyes don’t leave Jason once she’s seated, except to glance over at Tim once as if to ensure he’s okay where he is.

Bruce keeps one arm around Jason’s shoulders, close but not smothering. Jason still hasn’t moved. One of his hands is shaking where it rests on top of Peanut’s head, and Tim sees that, and stares, and stares, and then.

Tim blinks once, twice. Glances at Bruce, whose face is all _sorrow-concern-pain-love_. Looks back to Jason, _his Jason,_ who’s apparently falling apart at the seams—Tim’s never seen him like this before, he’s never been allowed around when Jason’s had one of his rare episodes, Jason didn’t want Tim to have to see— _his_ Jason, who looks so much younger than eighteen, yet a thousand years old at the same time, and Tim _bursts_ into tears.

It’s like someone fired off a gunshot in the room, the way everyone reacts. Cass is halfway off the loveseat in a second, frozen in uncertainty. Bruce’s attention has snapped right to Tim, now, even as his arm tightens around Jason. Jason himself looks like someone kicked a puppy in front of him, which is a marginal improvement over how defeated he’d looked just seconds before. But still. Not exactly the effect Tim would have chosen to have on him, if possible.

“S-sorry!” Tim chokes out, just as Dick rounds the corner and pulls up short.

“What,” he starts, blankly, sweeping the room. Dick spends a couple of seconds taking the scene in. Then his face settles into a determined sort of calm cheer, and he walks over to Tim.

“It’s all right,” he says, evenly. “You cry as much as you need to. Here’s your icepack,” he says, helping Tim get it settled along the worst of the bruising, “and here’s the Tylenol and some water, if you feel up to it.”

Tim’s crying too hard to speak, his whole body shaking with the force of each sob, he shakes his head frantically.

“Okay,” Dick says, still calm. “That’s all right. I’m just setting these on the end table, and they’ll be right there when you’re ready.”

Dick stands, shoots Bruce a look, and then goes over to wrap Cass in an octopus hug. She stiffens for just a moment before melting into Dick’s arms, like she’s one of the squirrels that constantly show up to sunbathe on the concrete patio.

Jason unfreezes, and to Tim’s surprise, heads straight for the blanket nest—still held steady at the shoulders by Bruce. He comes to a stop about a foot away, free hand clenching and unclenching at his side.

“Room for a small one?” he mumbles, voice much rougher than usual.

Tim chokes out a laugh in the middle of his tears. He lifts up the weighted blanket and scoots back a little further into Nova’s warmth to make more room. Bruce practically heaves Jason over the sofa-edge barrier and guides him down next to Tim, while Peanut waits patiently before jumping up to curl gently under Jason’s head.

Jason immediately pulls Tim into a hug, tucking Tim’s head under his chin and holding him tightly like he’s afraid Tim will break if he lets up. But Jason’s the one who’s shaking with tremors, and Tim’s reminded of cracked porcelain that’s just barely holding together. One tap too hard, and it will finally fall apart.

_Never Jason,_ Tim swears. Not while Tim’s around to do anything about it.

After another minute or so, Alfred slips in quietly with Ace at his heels and a tray full of hot cocoa mugs, done just how each of them likes best. He and Bruce settle with their mugs in two of the armchairs, watching over the kids as silent guardians. Ace curls up just within reach of Bruce’s gentle scratches. Cass places one hand on Dick’s arm for a moment before sliding off the loveseat and retrieving both of their mugs.

Tim calms his breathing into shuddery exhales instead of real cries, finally, and whispers, “Sorry. I don’t know why I did that, nothing even happened. I didn’t mean to freak you out more.”

“It’s okay,” Jason murmurs. He’s a little steadier now, too. “‘S not your fault. This is nice, anyway.”

“Yeah,” Tim agrees.

“Tim,” Bruce says, because of course he must have been eavesdropping. Perks of living with Batman.

“Mm,” Tim says, tiredly.

“You all right over there?”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Tim says, and he thinks _I sound very young._ He _feels_ very young.

“You have a concussion, sweetheart,” Bruce replies, patient as ever. “They often cause your emotions to be all over the place and more intense than usual. Not just pain and coordination issues.”

“Oh,” says Tim. They fall silent.

“Jason,” Tim whispers.

“Yeah.”

“What...what happened?” Tim looks up at Jason’s closed eyes. “Are you okay?”

Jason is silent for a few seconds before he sighs, and speaks. “Getting there, baby bird. I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?”

Tim can’t help it. Everything feels so _big_ right now. He doesn’t want to lose Jason too, after all the changes in the past year and a half.

Jason squeezes Tim a little tighter, careful to mind his still-sore head. “Absolutely,” he says, with significantly more conviction. “This isn’t my first rodeo. I’m sorry you saw me like that, though.”

“No,” Tim scowls at him now. “We’re brothers. You say it all the time. If we’re brothers, we have to trust each other. With the good _and_ the bad. You’re always there for me when I’m having something go wrong. I just—I want to help _you_ , too.”

“Yeah,” Jason sighs. “I guess I can’t fault you for that. You’re one of us. I’ll—I’ll try to be better about letting you in the next time. Okay?”

Tim can tell from the strain in Jason’s voice that this is costing him. It’s not a time to push. Trying is good enough for now, anyway. “Okay,” Tim agrees.

“Not to ruin the moment,” Dick calls from where he and Cass are leaned against each other, back to back with matching hot cocoa moustaches. “But I’m pretty sure we were promised a birthday celebration today that involved reading and games.”

“Jason needs a breather,” Tim snaps. He flushes. “Sorry, Dick,” he says immediately, feeling bad. “Didn’t mean to be so harsh.”

“I forgive you,” Dick says kindly. “I remember how my first concussion was. It’s really hard to control your emotions sometimes. I get it.”

“It’s okay,” Jason says, pushing himself up. “I can do it.” Peanut whines for a moment before re-settling.

“Are you sure, Jason?” Bruce asks. His piercing Batman gaze is locked onto his second son.

“Yeah,” Jason says, quiet but more solid than before. “Something distracting would be great right now. He glances over at Dick with a wry smile. “You always seem to know what we need. You sure you’re not a meta?”

“Big brother instinct,” Dick sing-songs. Tim catches Alfred suppressing a smile.

“I’m a big brother too,” Jason points out, as Bruce carries over a few books that Jason had apparently already picked out. “I don’t get your magic powers.”

“You just haven’t been one as long as me yet,” Dick says. “And anyway, your strengths are in different areas than mine. You’ve got your own magic powers. You just don’t see them very well yet.”

Tim and Cass nod along.

Cass raps twice on the windowsill to make sure they’re looking.

_Safe you us,_ she signs, looking at Jason. _Warm. Fire._ She pauses for a moment, then adds, _protect._

“True,” Tim says after blowing his nose into a Kleenex. “You’re always looking out for us and keeping us safe from bad guys, and bad days, and poison ivy. The plant, not the villain. Although the villain too, I guess.”

“And the Sun,” Dick says, with a too-cheerful grin.

Jason snorts, and Tim shoots a half-hearted glare at Dick. “Yeah, the Sun too.”

“Okay,” Jason says, raising his hands. He smiles at Cass. “Surprisingly touching point taken. Thanks, princess.”

Cass ducks her head and smiles.

“All right,” Jason says, settling his back against one of the sofa armrests and taking a big sip of his hot cocoa. Tim downs the Tylenol and some water before carefully reaching for his own mug.

“We all ready?” Bruce asks. There’s a chorus of vague affirmative noises from all humans in the room. Bruce gestures with one arm in a _go ahead_ signal. “Then by all means. Take it away, Jaybird.”

Jason clears his throat. _“In a hole in the ground,”_ he begins, _“there lived a Hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means_ ** _comfort.”_**

Tim settles back against the opposite sofa’s backrest, one hand holding his mug and one buried deep in Nova’s fur. Jason’s pleasant, vaguely-accented voice rolls over him as he looks around at this family of his, small and broken and yet so, so whole and full of love. And Tim’s head hurts, and he can’t think quite straight, and his eyes _hurt_ from bruises and too many tears, and there’s too much pain in the world that he wishes he could just take away from everyone he loves.

But right now he’s with his family—his real family. The ones he’s slowly learning to lean on, who will be there for him when he needs them. Whether he wants them or not. He’s made it another year around their solar system, through all the ups and downs and hard work and joys and pain it included. He made it through with these people by his side, and _now_ , Tim thinks, he’s going to make it through another just the same.

Their family has cracks, and cuts, and an awful lot of scars. Some weeks, it feels like there are more bad days in the household than good. But they have each other, on days like this. They fall apart, and take turns falling back together again every time.

And they hurt, and they bleed, and they cause hurt in turn sometimes. But today, they’re together, and today they are quiet, listening to the warm-hearted bravery of one small Hobbit, against very great odds. Today, they’re all home, and isn’t that an amazing feeling, to realize now that he understands what a home is finally, after all these years.

It’s _warm_. It’s full of affection that does _not_ have conditions, that doesn’t vanish and reappear like summer storms. It has people that stay rooted, even while they come and go. And like every good Hobbit-hole, Tim muses, no matter what troubles come to knock, no matter what dragons lie down the road, or storms come to lash the windows, it means comfort, and it means safety, and it means _love_.

So Tim settles back, with his family and hope and hot cocoa that’s _just_ the right kind of warm, and Jason reads on. And in the midst of all the bad lurking just down the road, his own personal Smaugs waiting for a fight, _this_ , Tim thinks, _is all good._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then once it’s been an hour or two and everyone’s fight or flight hormone/chemical cascades have finally run their course, they all have wonderful crepes and also play several rounds of Uno that make Tim’s head hurt a lot worse but leave him in a two way Uno champion tie with Alfred, so it’s worth it. 
> 
> Love you all, please hydrate and eat and take your meds and sleep if you can. <3 I hope you have a lovely day or night wherever you are when you read this! 
> 
> The plot picks back up again next chapter in more of the usual style. Huzzah!


	8. i am losing you to the sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cass is learning phonics! Bruce is a good long-suffering 4 a.m. dad who’s had a lot of practice by now. Tim goes to see his mother getting treatment. Baby rabbits are watched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just left word vomit with none editing, so I apologize for any roughness. I'll be back to fix typos and polish syntax later when I'm not typing on my phone. Also, your comments are all so wonderful and keeping me going, thank you so much <333
> 
> NEXT CHAPTER: The Search for Steph, aka Tim and Batgirl team up and Steph is a really smart wild child with plans to rival Eugenides the Thief, and I love her to pieces
> 
> Chapter title is from "Lanterns Lit" by Son Lux.

Tim is in Cass’ room, dangling off her bed upside-down with his sneakers kicked up on the wall, when Black Canary arrives at the manor. Tim’s watch alerts him that someone has entered the property, and he swipes away the notification with a little more aggression than is strictly necessary. 

His concussion symptoms have been lessening over the past week and a half, but he’s still banned from using any Zeta tubes until Dr. Thompkins gives him the final all-clear. Tim figured that would get him out of therapy for a while, but nope. No such luck. He thinks back to when Bruce dropped them news on him a couple mornings ago.

* * *

“Dinah says she’ll come to the manor instead,” Bruce announces, once Tim is past the initial hellish first days post-concussion. 

“What,” Tim says, twisting around in the recliner to stare at Bruce.

“Your bi-weekly session,” Bruce says, patiently. As if it’s Tim’s concussion speaking and not his enduring aversion to confronting his own brain. 

“You’re going to let Dinah come _here?”_ Tim clarifies, incredulous. _“You_. Are going to let another superhero come _here_. To the manor. Just like that.” 

Bruce shrugs. “It’s not the first time she’s made a house call for us. I’ve got plenty of safety protocols in place. This way, you won’t have to miss any appointments while you’re benched.” 

Tim scowls down at the copy of _The King of Attolia_ in his lap while Bruce ruffles his hair as he’s leaving the room, whistling some show tune Tim is _sure_ Bruce picked up from Dick. 

Tim has been _ecstatic_ to think that he would get a break from talking about his thoughts, and feelings, and the past that he just wants to shove in a box where it belongs. And then Bruce just _has_ to walk in and shatter the moment to the tune of a Broadway soundtrack. The _betrayal_. 

* * *

Tim is drawn back to the present as Cass slows to a stop again, ready in case she calls on him.

 _“Muh,”_ Cass says, frowning in concentration. She twirls a couple steps further to the right, pauses again. Her right hand flicks upwards into an almost-ballet arch. _“Eh._ E— _”_ She frowns, and tries again, changing her jaw position slightly. _“Ee,”_ she says, then nods sharp and birdlike before flowing into a _grand_ _jeté_ as she crosses to the other side of the room.

Cass has the large foam-letter alphabet Jason bought for her scattered around the hardwood, and she’s been dancing between them with intense focus for nearly an hour. Tim’s lazily tossing a ball into the air and bouncing it off the ceiling for laughs, but mostly he’s just listening to Cass slowly sound out the more easy-to-imitate letters each time she stops by one, and helping her with the harder ones whenever she’s stuck and looks over to him for help. 

Like now.

Tim rolls over onto his stomach, squinting down at the sideways bright yellow letter Cass has her toe pointed at. 

“Q,” he says. “It sounds like _kwuh._ ”

Cass concentrates, her whole body still. “C- _cuh,”_ she tries. “Cuh. Cuh!” She scowls. 

“It’s a hard one,” Tim says, no hint of pity in his voice. Cass doesn’t take well to that. _“Q_ isn’t a letter that’s used nearly as much as a lot of others. And it’s usually paired with a u after it. I know you don’t know how words are spelled yet, but that’s important later. Um,” he says, thinking for a moment. He pushes himself up onto his elbows, chin tucked into his hands. _“Kwuh_ requires you to blend a couple different sounds together, I think, so it might get easier once you can do both _c_ and _w_ clearly. Your _c_ sounds are better this week though! That’s awesome.”

Cass sighs, shoving some of her hair back behind her ear with tight fingers.

“I know it’s frustrating to have to go slow,” Tim says. “But you’re really doing an amazing job. It takes little kids years to learn sounds and the alphabet and how to talk. You’ve already come really far in just a month, Cassie.”

 _Thank you,_ Cass signs, posture loosening just a fraction. _Tired work._

Dinah chooses that moment to knock on the door frame and stick her head in the room with a smile. Tim flops back down face-first on Cass’s quilt. 

“Yeah,” Tim sighs. “You and me both.” Then he rolls off of the bed, suffering through a quick cheek kiss from Cass, and follows Dinah out the door, plastering his best company smile on as he goes. 

* * *

_So._

So, so, so.

Eating ice cream out of a carton at 4 a.m., while hiding in a closet in boxers and one of Jason’s pilfered red beanies and nothing else, probably _isn’t_ the greatest sign of a healthy mental state, but good news, everyone! 

Tim is now _way_ past too tired to care.

He shoves another spoonful into his mouth and stares at the light leaking in under the door. He’s not even hungry anymore. His stomach is actually starting to hurt. But it’s something to do. And it’s sweet. And there’re _brownie bits,_ okay, like what the hell do you _want_ from him, Tim is losing his mind and he just wants _one_ nice thing tonight after the dreams he woke up from and the day he has to look forward to in a few hours. 

Two holes appear in the golden line of light. 

_A transverse electromagnetic wave,_ Tim thinks, _a spectrum of energy and only some of it visible to the human eye. Some of it just vanished from mine._ He stabs his spoon into the carton and tries to find a couple more brownie bits, chewing furiously when he inevitably does. _Object in the way. Probably feet. Feet are made of atoms. Planck’s Law implies that every object with atoms has an innate temperature, which means every object technically glows (see Ultraviolet Catastrophe for more info on that saga of revelations—come back to that later, would be a good extra credit essay for Professor Schumacker next semester), which means that there’s still light in the holes now. But I can’t see it. Because eyes are stupid. And I don’t want anymore ice cream, but I’m too committed now, and there’s a whole bunch of the electromagnetic spectrum I’ll never be able to see, and every solid object like a baseball or me is technically a wave, and maybe I should never ever read physics blogs when I can’t sleep ever again._

The closet door opens, and Tim has to squint, then blink a few times against the influx of light before he can make out Bruce’s tired face. There’s some stubble around the man’s jawline, a 5’o’clock shadow eleven hours out of place. 

“Tim.” Bruce’s face betrays nothing.

“Do you have a tracker on me,” Tim demands. “Is that how you do this.”

“I ought to,” Bruce sighs. He raises his eyebrows. “It would save me the hour I just spent checking every closet and wardrobe on this floor.”

Had it really been that long? Tim hadn’t meant to wake anyone else up, just stay awake till Alfred got up to start cooking breakfast. 

Tim looks down at his bare feet, noticing distantly that his toes are a tinged ever-so-slightly purple. He wiggles them, drops his spoon into the half-melted ice cream at the bottom of the container. 

“Sorry,” he says quietly. 

Bruce’s knees pop as he squats down and drops onto the floor, scooting over till he sits hip-to-hip with Tim. 

“Dinah and I didn’t get a chance to touch base before she left today. I was on a conference call,” Bruce says. “Rough session?”

Tim snorts without humor. “Rough _life,”_ he says, and it’s _just_ late enough at night for him to let bitterness leak into his voice for once. Tim closes his eyes, thunks his head back against the wood paneling. 

“I didn’t mean that,” he sighs. 

Bruce hums, staring straight ahead still. “It’s okay if you did.”

“I didn’t.”

“Okay.”

“I didn’t!”

“Okay,” Bruce says, even more firmly now. _“Tim._ I believe you. It’s all right.” 

Tim blows his bangs off of his eyes and pulls the spoon back out of the ice cream carton. There are drips and lines of sticky melted ice cream all over the spoon’s handle now, and all over Tim’s fingers, and he stabs at the soupy chocolate fudge _mess_ and finds he doesn’t particularly care.

Bruce waits for Tim to stuff his mouth full before he speaks again.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Define _‘it’_ ,” Tim says, words garbled by the creamy soup on his tongue.

Bruce levels a _Look™_ at him. “What’s got you wandering the halls and drowning your sorrows in my favorite ice cream at four in the morning.”

Tim blinks. _Uh. Oops. At least Bruce doesn’t look too upset about it?_

“Ah,” Tim says, a little strangled. 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” says Tim, sounding mulish even to his own ears, and he scrapes fiercely at the bottom of the carton. 

“Do you _need_ to talk about it?” Bruce amends. 

“Probably,” Tim mutters. Drags one hand down his face. “Yes.” 

They sit in silence for another minute. Bruce reaches over and pulls the carton and spoon out of Tim’s hands and sets them out in the hallway. 

“It’s _tomorrow,”_ Tim blurts out finally. “I mean. It’s a _lot_ of things, not just—there’s the unknown purple cape and whatever they’re up to, and Jason’s leaving for college in a few weeks, that’s a _whole thing,_ and I’m really tired of—I never get a break from _realizing_ things and I want it to stop for a bit. And Cass is here now, and she’s great and I love her but everything is changing so fast all the time, and my parents still don’t talk to me but mom’s still _dying_ and tomorrow is—” Tim stops and takes several slow, measured breaths. 

Bruce slowly lifts his arm and drapes it around Tim, tugging him into his side. Tim’s head tips over and lands on Bruce’s shoulder. 

“I thought I’d be ready for it,” Tim says. “I’ve been researching like _crazy_. I read so many websites and blog posts about chemo and everything, and I’ve been spending ages watching people vlog their treatment days on YouTube so I know what it’ll be like, but everyone is so different and also it’s just—completely sad and terrifying for these people, and there are basically hazmat plastic wraps around the IV bags and nurses have to wear protective gear but it just goes right in the person’s veins? And I keep seeing these people start out, and then cut to a while later and they look so _sick_. I’ve been trying to watch so I know what’s coming but it isn’t...it doesn’t help.”

Bruce presses a long kiss into the top of Tim’s head. Tim shudders once. He twists around a little so he’s looking at Bruce, and one of Tim’s hands is gripping to the front of his shirt without realizing it. 

“Bruce,” he says, voice tight. “Bruce. They look so sick. They—even the ones who start out happy and okay—they—” Tim closes his eyes for a moment before re-opening them and hearing his own voice crack. “They look _so sick.”_

“I know,” Bruce says softly. 

“And. And I know it’s cancer, like, I’m not stupid,” Tim says desperately. “I know what it does. And I was with Ives when he went through chemo and everything. But it’s so different at the children’s hospitals, and we didn’t understand as much anyway when we were younger, and Mom’s already so tired and sick and Bruce—” Tim does let out a choked sob now, just one. “I don’t know how she can handle even one dose of this. What if it kills her tomorrow? What if it just is too much before we even get there? I know I said I wanted to be there but how am I supposed to—I want to be there for her. I don’t want her to be alone, and I mean, I know she has Dad but it’s not the same. And I want to try to help if I can. But how long does she even have? No one tells me anything. I’m not stupid. I know it can’t be long. She already looks like...she already looks like a skeleton. And isn’t this just going to hurt her more?”

“Okay,” Bruce says, firm and solid and the only sane thing in Tim’s spiraling existence at this moment. “We’re going to work through that. But I’m going to get us somewhere more comfortable first, all right? I’m not as young as I used to be, and I think you need a blanket.”

“I’m fine,” Tim says. 

“Humor me,” Bruce tells him, with a faint smile. 

He pulls Tim up along with him as he stands, never letting Tim move from where he’s burrowed into Bruce’s side. They manage an almost-three-legged-race down the hallway to Bruce’s study and sink onto the couch after Bruce drops the ice cream carton in the trash can. 

“The spoon,” Tim tries to protest. He moves as if to hop up and go get it from the trash. 

“We have plenty,” Bruce says, waving his free hand dismissively. “I’m Bruce Wayne, I can replace one spoon if necessary. It’s not important right now.”

“Alfred might beg to differ.”

“I’ll deal with Alfred if it comes to that.”

“What if I can’t do this, Bruce?” Tim asks. “What if we get there tomorrow and I can’t go in? Or I go in but can’t actually sit with my mom?”

“Then we leave,” Bruce says, gently. “We’ll just turn around and go, unless you want to stay longer and see if it gets easier after some time passes. You don’t have to do this, Tim, it’s okay if you’re not ready.”

“But I have to be,” Tim says miserably, face buried in Bruce’s thick cable knit turtleneck. “She might—”

“She _might,_ yes,” Bruce says, as gently as he can. “She might die tomorrow. Or tonight. Or she might live another year or two. But you have to look out for yourself first, and trust us to do it for you when you can’t.” Bruce strokes his hand through Tim’s loose, fluffy hair a few times. “You’ve spent your whole life trying to manage your parents’ emotions and do what you think is best for them, what will make them happy. Now, we’re all here to help you do what’s best for you. Sometimes that isn’t going to line up with what you think will be best for your parents. And that’s okay.”

“Like when I came to live with you,” Tim says. 

“Like when you came to live with me,” Bruce agrees. “And when you entered your work into a photography contest for the first time. And when you told Jason to not ever call you by your full name. And every time you’ve told me that you need to stay in and work on a project for school instead of going out as Robin. Those are choices that are good for you. And if seeing your mom getting her treatment is going to hurt more than it helps tomorrow, you’re allowed to make that call and not go in. Do you understand?”

“Yeah, Bruce. I get it.”

“I’m going to be with you the whole time, too,” Bruce adds. “You won’t be alone for any of it. If you’re too upset to make the call, or if you dissociate, I’ll make it for you. Okay?”

Tim tries to smother two yawns in a row, failing admirably. 

“Okay,” he says. Then, even more quietly: “I trust you. I do. I want to do this tomorrow but—if you think I need to leave, I trust you.”

Bruce smiles slightly. “Batman?” he asks. “Or Bruce?” 

Tim looks up at him, blinking long and slow with a slight furrow between his brows. “Stupid,” he says, but there’s only warmth in his voice. “Batman is Bruce. He just has a hard time showing it.”

Bruce laughs. “Okay, Tim. Fair.” 

The grandfather clock chimes for the half-hour, and they look to see the hands at the five and six. 

“Do you think you could get a little sleep tonight before we have to get up?” Bruce asks. Tim thinks for a moment, taking stock of his body and mind, then nods. 

“Think so,” he slurs, just a little. “Really tired now.”

“It’s amazing what a difference it makes when you’re finally able to get something off your chest,” Bruce says. “Do you want me to carry you to your bed? You have a couple of hours before we need to leave. Alfred or I can wake you.”

Tim looks over at Bruce. He feels torn in two, desperately needing to be more independent than ever in this time of stress and vulnerability, while also desperately wanting to be held and feel like someone else is really going to be able to just deal with all the big bad things for Tim so he can not be an adult for once. 

“I…” Tim trails off as Bruce preemptively hauls Tim up onto his lap and gets a better grip under his legs and arms. Tim swallows. “Aren’t I too old for this?” he asks softly. 

“No,” Bruce says firmly. “You’ve got a lot of lost time I want to make up for. And you’re never too old to like being carried by someone. You’re not too old. You’re just right for this. You’re still a kid.”

“Doesn’t feel like it,” Tim mumbles. But he relaxes just a fraction into Bruce’s hold. 

“You are,” Bruce insists, “even when it feels like you’ve already lived a hundred years and you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders. You are still young. You are not too late to be loved, and to be silly, and enjoy things that you weren’t allowed to have. You have time to learn how to feel your age again. So,” he finishes, twisting his neck a bit to make sure he’s locking eyes with a captive Tim, “do you want me to carry you?”

Tim looks back and sees nothing but earnest sincerity in Bruce’s face, open in a way that the world rarely ever sees. Something inside the awful knot in Tim’s ribcage loosens just a little. 

“Yeah,” he says, no louder than a whisper. Bruce hears anyway. He always does. 

“Then off we go,” Bruce says, and slides off the couch onto his feet in one fluid motion. He flicks the study lights off as they exit the room, and Tim tries to just let himself enjoy the feeling of being warm and wanted and touched. 

“If you want,” Bruce says slowly, even as his pace doesn’t falter one bit. “You can come join me on my bed. I’ve got room.”

“I can’t,” Tim responds instantly. Because. He can’t. That’s—parents’ rooms are—he just can’t. But he knows Bruce would like him to, will be disappointed if he doesn’t, and Bruce is trying to bond with him tonight so—

“That’s all right,” Bruce says, chocolate-smooth and a little too knowing. “Your bed it is. Just know that the offer is open permanently, all right? Any night you want to join me, just come right in. You might find one of your siblings in there too. I promise I’ll never turn you away.”

Tim’s eyes feel quite hot, all of a sudden. He smashes the traitorous feeling down ruthlessly. “Okay,” he says, voice steadier than he had been expecting. 

“And Tim,” Bruce says, as he leans down to gently deposit Tim on the mattress next to a drowsy Nova. “There is _always_ room for you with me. Don’t forget that. You are wanted.” 

Then Bruce vanishes out the door after a brief kiss to Tim’s forehead, leaving Tim stunned and floored and a thousand other descriptive verbs, but mostly still just exhausted. Tim burrows under the blankets and shifts so he’s closer to Nova’s solid warmth and weight. 

He has to go to the hospital in a few hours to witness what was probably one of the worst days of his mom’s life. It will probably be painful. It will definitely be stressful. There might be a fight, even. But no matter what, Bruce will be there, and Tim trusts him. He took him away the last time Tim saw his parents, when Tim froze. He can trust Bruce to help him here, now. And meanwhile, all Bats have to sleep as much as they can, when they can. Everything will be easier with at least a little bit of rest. 

Tim rolls over, buries his face next to one of Nova’s paws, and is asleep in the space from one breath to the next. 

* * *

In the end, Tim does go to the cancer center later that morning. And he makes it all the way in. 

There’s a rather stiff greeting between Jack and Bruce in the waiting room—Janet was already called back for some of the prep. Jack offers Tim a perfectly cordial hello and asks some basic questions about how he is and what he’s up to this summer. Tim can tell his father is at least trying, in an uncertain but seemingly honest way. Maybe it’s for Tim’s sake, or for Janet’s, or maybe Jack really is finally taking Bruce and the court’s words to heart. Whatever the reason or reasons, Tim appreciates it for what it is. 

Bruce still doesn’t let Jack touch him or go in for a hug. 

(Tim appreciates that, too.) 

There’s nothing _dramatic,_ but every now and then as they sit and lapse into the silence that comes after small talk, Tim remembers a raised voice and a hand, or the confusion and dread seeing a belt twisting in half, shiny black, immaculate stitching around the very edges in chocolate brown, and. 

None of it is _now_ , but Tim is glad for the distance anyway. 

* * *

Bruce somehow makes Jack stay out in the waiting area while he takes Tim back to the infusion area to see Janet alone. Jack doesn’t even offer a token protest today. 

Tim doesn’t know if he should be more grateful or worried about what that could imply about the situation. He reminds himself to take those thoughts and put them in a box to open later, and just lets Bruce take the lead. Bruce will walk Tim through this. No matter _what_ is going on. 

They follow a nurse in cheerful scrubs down a hallway, past some examination rooms—Tim hears someone crying in one of them, and swallows momentarily before shoving all thoughts of it far, far away. Did his mom cry when they got the first bad news? The second? The third? Did his dad? Or were they the Drakes, stoic and respectable to the last, backbones of steel and good upbringing not failing them in the darkest kind of hour? _Focus. Mom is here, he thinks. You’re just here for Mom. She needs you._

The nurse leads them into the main area, then steps aside. Tim rounds the nurses’ main desk a head of Bruce, and makes it one step onto the open tile of the main infusion room before he really gets a good look at the room, taking it in. Several adults are already sitting in various reclining chairs for their treatments, all in various levels of seeming health—some look like they’re fresh off the street in downtown Gotham’s shopping district. A couple look two wrong breaths away from the grave. 

Tim has eyes for only one. His mom is in a reclining chair almost exactly in front of his line of sight, managing to give him a faint smile while—

Tim feels Bruce having to hop, skip, and jump to a stop to avoid running straight into Tim’s back with how suddenly Tim’s legs stopped moving. 

“Tim?” Bruce questions softly, one hand landing solid and heavy on Tim’s shoulder.

Tim can only take in his mother. His mother. She looks even worse than when he last saw her at Drake Manor. He didn’t understand how that would be possible until this exact moment. 

Her skin is beyond porcelain, it’s shades of gray. She looks like a starvation victim from a history textbook at school. Her hair is almost all gone now, and she’s wearing a soft cap, just a few last wispy strands pulled down around the edges where she could manage it. Janet was always so proud of her hair. It was her crowning jewel, her hair, and now it’s gone, and her eyebrows, and eyelashes, and she looks like a skeleton dressed in people clothes, and Tim has a horrible urge to start laughing hysterically at the image of Mr. Bones from his middle school science classroom dressed in Janet’s gala finery and jewels, laid out pretty and inanimate in a casket for all to see. 

_How far have the tumors reached now,_ he wonders absently. _How much of Mom is even left._ The toxic warning cover on the chemotherapy drug bags stand out like neon signs in Tim’s eyeline, and the line goes straight into a chest port-a-cath he didn’t even know his mom had. Had she gotten it as soon as they’d learned her diagnosis? Was it more recent, only since they’d moved back to Gotham? Well. It’s not like they’d bothered involving Tim in any way. He could have brought her ice packs, at least, if they’d asked. He could have helped her reach and carry things while the tender muscles healed after that surgery. He would have gladly done it a hundred times a day if they’d just _asked_. His poor mom. 

“Timothy,” his mother says softly, and he hears it like a ringing bell across the sea of scuffed, off-white hospital tile. 

Tim takes one step. Then another. Foot after foot, deaf to Bruce, blind to the rest of the room, eyes only on his mother and her chair. 

His mother who reached for him now with arms that Tim is afraid will break under his touch, his mother who stares down rooms full of businessmen and bends them to her will in an hour or less, his mother in the Lara Croft clothes on rare FaceTime calls from a dig site somewhere remote, tanned and beaming and flush with the joy of doing what she loves. His mother who taught him how to sign his name in cursive. His mother who didn’t eat his cookies. His mother who smacked his face into a cabinet door. His mother who patched up his torn knees after his first ever accident on his first bicycle that was too big for him still but his father said he’d grow into it. His mother who is his family no matter what else comes between them, his mother who is dying, his mother who looks like she’s already a ghost in Tim’s haunted dreams. 

His mother who’s on _oxygen_. His mother who clearly weighs less than him. His mother who is being eaten by her own body and poisoned from outside it, just in the hopes of a little more time. _At what cost,_ Tim thinks, suddenly terribly, horribly sad. _At what cost?_

Tim is in front of her, and she reaches out her too-thin arms and pulls him in, and Tim goes, of course, because this is his _mother,_ and she is a stranger in this body, and yet she made him and fed him _her_ mother’s _hamataschen_ , and taught him the old prayers, and taught him about Tikkun Olam when Tim came home from the circus grieving someone else’s parents he never got to know and would never be able to save. His mother didn’t know how to be a mother, really, he thinks, but she did do some things right. And she doesn’t deserve this. 

Tim makes it through a long hug, some questions on both sides (although he doesn’t remember what he asked her), and part of a jigsaw puzzle on one of the industrial rolling trays before Bruce speaks up and decides it’s time to go. 

They don’t see Jack on the way out. Tim lets Bruce guide him to the car, hands on Tim’s shoulders, voice in Tim’s ear, saying things that don’t have to mean anything, just exist as white noise. 

Tim spends the ride back to the manor with his ear pressed up against the window, listening to the road sounds and feeling the car’s jolts and rumbles as it flies down the highway under Bruce’s smooth control. It reminds him of the times his parents drove him places as a kid, where he wasn’t allowed to touch the windows or doors with his hands, since children were dirty, but no one had said anything about his face, and Tim decided that it was better, really, to be bumped along the same way that the car felt the road, than to do any silly mouth-fog doodles on the windows with his finger. 

Sometimes Tim wishes someone taught him how to roll down grassy hills for the fun of it before he was thirteen years old. Sometimes he wishes he’d disobeyed a little bit more when he was younger, just to experience things that were forbidden. Sometimes he wishes he never realized he wasn’t acting like a kid at all. 

Bruce just keeps one hand gently wrapped around Tim’s left arm, and plays their tag-teamed pop-punk playlist on the stereo like he always does when it’s just the two of them in the car. Tim keeps his ear on the glass, his eyes on the blurry horizon speeding past, and tries not to think about anything at all. 

* * *

“They should have warned you,” Bruce says, low and steady after he parks the car in the garage and both of them are still sitting in their seats, staring out the front window. Tim can hear the danger in his voice, carefully hidden but there for the people who know to look. 

“Probably,” Tim agrees. He doesn’t bother infusing any emotion into it. The situation is what it is. How Tim feels won’t change anything. 

Bruce squeezes Tim’s hand. “I’m sorry that you’re going through this. I can’t imagine what you’re feeling and thinking right now, sweetheart.”

“Honestly?” Tim says dully. “Not really anything at all. She’s just…” Tim waves one hand vaguely for a moment before dropping it down into his lap. “I feel like she’s already in the grave, and that was her ghost stepping one foot back here to say hello.”

Bruce makes a neutral sort of noise in the back of his throat, but doesn’t move his hand away from Tim’s. 

“I don’t want to go back there,” Tim bites out. “I don’t care how cool the kaleidoscope peep-through cross was supposed to be in the waiting room. Or the jigsaw puzzles or free chips. I don’t want to go back. I’m gonna hate myself for it, but I don’t want to go back.”

“Then you don’t have to,” Bruce says. “We’ll figure it out. You made it through this time, and you don’t have to do it again if you don’t want to. I’m proud of you.”

“What if she asks—”

“No one is going to be able to make you go,” Bruce says firmly. “I promise, Tim. You don’t ever have to go again unless you choose it.”

Tim breathes in. Lets it out slowly. “Okay,” he says, bumping his head briefly against Bruce’s shoulder. “Okay.”

* * *

Cass materializes suddenly, rapping sharply against the window, and Tim turns to stare at her. He’s definitely running more slowly than usual. Cass frowns, but it’s not an angry one. More...concerned. Puzzling out a problem she’s determined to solve, come hell or high water. It’s the small kind of frown Tim always sees on her face when she’s trying to replicate a move Dick has shown her on the aerial silks, or she’s trying to get her vocal muscles to shape air in the ways she wants them to. 

_Out,_ she signs, quick and sharp. 

Tim hesitates a fraction too long, apparently, because she frowns harder and jabs a finger at Tim through the window. _You. Out now._

“Okay, okay,” Tim says, holding his hands up in mock surrender. 

“I’m going to let Alfred know we’re ordering pizza for dinner,” Bruce says, as Tim pops the door open. “You just worry about what Cass wants. And grab Nova while you’re at it,” he adds, tacking on a stern tone at the end. 

“Yessir,” Tim drawls, throwing up a lazy salute. 

Bruce doesn’t call him on it. He’s just glad Tim’s feeling better enough to sass him a little right now. That’s a marked improvement on the previous hour. 

Cass yanks Tim’s arm, spinning him around and dragging him behind her as she speeds towards the door to the manor. 

“Cass,” Tim tries. “Where are we going? Cass.”

Cass just shakes her head, smiling with the corners of her mouth. _See soon,_ she signs. 

Tim smiles wryly. He supposes that, as usual in this family, he just needs to remember to _trust_. 

* * *

Cass drags him, Nova, Jason, Peanut, and of course, Ace, out back behind the manor, tromping through Alfred’s kitchen on their way out with Cass as some kind of Bat-child pied piper. Cass gives Alfred a very light head pat as they make their way across the kitchen, and he laughs fondly as she slips out the back door. 

It was baby rabbits. Cass found a nest of tiny baby rabbits near one of the evergreen bushes out back. Tim finds himself lying on his front, nose to nose with Jason and Cass while the dogs run around playing nearby, and he listens to Cass and Jason’s steady breathing and quiet movements as they watch the baby bunnies twitch an ear, a little foot, one tiny, tiny nose, and he thinks _life does keep going even if we can’t avoid death,_ and he thinks _Cass sees too much for her own good, and I don’t know what we’d do without her._

She catches his eye when he looks up next, and she must see something in the way he lies on the grass, because after a cursory scan up and down, she locks eyes with him and breaks into a warm smile.

“See,” she says softly, pointing one finger at the rabbits, and gesturing around at herself, Jason, and Tim. Then she adds, _here still._

Tim swallows down the lump rising in his throat. “Yeah, Cass,” he says back, just as quiet. “You’re right.” _Thank you,_ he signs, as Jason watches with approving eagle eyes. Then, _love you._

Cass lights up even more. Within seconds, Tim is in some sort of three-way tackle hug, and then the dogs join in on the fun to see what all the shouting is about, and in the middle of the scuffle, they are still careful to never bump the rabbit warren or come too close and spook the babies. 

They fall apart into a panting heap on the lawn, then, still touching, still near, and Tim closes his eyes as he lets himself be present in this moment without fear. He turns his head to look when Jason speaks softly, and sees his older brother staring up at one of the clouds with a distant look on his face. Not sad, or hurt, just thoughtful. 

“‘We must take care that no one squashes it,’” Jason recites quietly, and Tim doesn’t know what the line is from, but it sounds vaguely familiar. Maybe something he heard in a previous life, like, say, elementary school. 

“Mm,” Cass agrees. But Jason goes on, as if he didn’t even hear. 

“‘I see, then, that a kind of faith prevails,’” he says. “‘That is how things are: I am your mother, and we are kind to snails.’”

Tim doesn’t know what it means, exactly, or what Jason is referencing. But at the same time? He understands _perfectly_. 

They are siblings, broken and bent and drawn together by life’s cruel whims and the too-big heart of one good man who can’t stand by and watch living things be hurt. And they are together through whatever comes, they are hurt ones learning that they still deserve good things, and they are a _family,_ and they are kind to baby rabbits, and frightened people, and tiny little snails. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "For a Five-Year-Old" has been wrecking my heart for years now and I've been dying to find a way to work it into this story via Jason since halfway through Latchkey. I don't know if this chapter is very coherent or good, but it is what it needed to be, so that's all right! 
> 
> Please remember to be kind to yourself today! Hydrate, eat at least something small, and take any meds that you need! I believe in you.


	9. accept that who you chose to be was out of my control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steph is running around with a Plan, and Tim sneaks out against about a BILLION orders and has a rough night. It ends pretty okay, though, because that's what family is for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hellooooooo I hope you enjoy the chapter, I edited absolutely NOTHING I will fix it later and I apologize for any typos! I've got to go to bed like thirty minutes ago lol
> 
>  **Content Warning:** Several mentions of vomiting. Implied/reference drug abuse/addiction. 
> 
> Chapter title is from "I Am Not Nothing" by Beth Crowley.

While Tim sneaks out of Wayne Manor for the first time over a year, swinging his leg over the roof edge mere minutes after Batman and Flamebird roll out in the Batmobile headed for the city, Stephanie Brown, coincidentally, is on the other side of Gotham doing the same. 

* * *

She’s carefully picked her way around the creaky floors upstairs, skipping over the worst boards and sticking to the seams where the walls and hardwood meet. Her dad has _work associates_ over. Again. And any night they remember that Stephanie is around ends up being a lousy night in her book. So this is just...more incentive for her to head out and keep working on her plan. 

Sometimes Steph thinks maybe her mom has the right idea, just locking herself in the bathroom for hours and going far, _far_ away from the run-down house and empty money jar and criminal schemes and abusive men and family she didn’t want to have. On the really bad nights, Steph wonders if she’ll end up like her mom if she ever takes the drugs once. Wonders if she’ll ever finally cave one day. Wonders if she’d ever make it back out, or if she’d stop caring enough to _try_. 

God knows that that would at least be better than ending up like her dad. 

But Steph always remembers she has plans for the future, plans for her life, and lots of work to do. Important work. And it’s finally starting to show results. 

* * *

Stephanie hits all the usual spots on her route, pulling out water misters and carefully inspecting the growing moss. She spent weeks figuring out the best urban moss to harvest and the right spots to do the moss graffiti. They had to be large enough spaces to draw attention from Batman and the police, of course—three square feet of lettering isn’t going to make many people look twice. Steph needs to go _big_. And they had to be in spots where people wouldn’t scrape off the moss before it grew enough to get the messages across, but were also well-trafficked enough areas that they’d be _seen_. 

So steph may have talked to some mom-and-pop store owners, a couple Thai places, one of the crisis nursery building owners she’s volunteered with a few times through school. She spoke with them as Spoiler, of course, not _Stephanie_ , but she didn’t bother changing her personality or voice. She suspects a couple of them have put two and two together already, but no one’s ratted her out.

She could have just used regular spray paint to do all this. And she’d be lying if she said there wasn’t a part of her that thought this was a _pain in the ass_ and regrets not just taking the easy route. But Mr. Mendoza made Steph care so much about ecology in last year’s biology course that she just... _can’t_ use spray paint anymore, not even to refinish her picture frames. _Save the planet,_ Steph thinks. _Great motto in theory, less great to be doing at stupid o’clock in the night with a bag full of water and straight bleach. God, I wish I had less strong ethics views some days._

Steph runs along the rooftop’s border in her hefty combat boots, one foot after the other in a smooth line, and she doesn’t hesitate for a second when she runs out of concrete from one second to the next. She hurls herself into open air, laughing with the adrenaline rush. She loves the way it always sounds when her costume billows and snaps around her in the relative quiet of Gotham’s nights. She hits the lower roof across the alley in a practiced roll and comes up sprinting. 

Slipping in and out of shadows, wary of where she knows there’s some surveillance, Steph dances her way around neighborhoods through all the areas that are least likely to have cameras. These are her people, anyway, _her_ streets. Her runaway attempts. Her disappearances. 

Stephanie knows how to vanish when she needs to. You pick that skill up quick when your dad decides to be a third-rate villain in a city like Gotham. When destiny comes calling? Stephanie makes herself _scarce_. 

So Steph runs a lot. She knows the safe places, the streets to avoid, the roofs that are good for camping out on for a night when you need to not be found. She’s stayed with Catwoman a couple times, after the woman found her running around with a backpack in the middle of winter. And now?

Now Steph gets to use her knowledge to make a difference. 

She lives and breathes this city. It’s her home, it’s in her blood. She won’t let anyone wreck it, no matter how much bad there undeniably is in Gotham. The city deserves a decent warning. And it’s about time someone shows the villains they can’t always just—get what they want easy-peasy. If they want to actually carry out the plans Steph’s been eavesdropping on for the past few months, they’re going to have to work for it. And if she has anything to do with it, they’ll have to get through Batman first, too. Cluemaster, schoomaster. Arthur isn’t the only one with brains in this family. It’s high time for him to learn. 

Steph slides down a drainpipe with minimal slippingand pulls out a bottle of bleach and one of her many, _many_ paintbrushes for the night, surveying the sprouting moss patch carefully before giving a satisfied nod and getting to work. Up till now, the moss has all just been in big solid blocks. _But after tonight,_ Steph thinks, with grim satisfaction, _people won’t be able to ignore it._

 _Batman has the Bat-Signal, but I’m waging guerrilla warfare down here. When the big guys fight, it’s always the little people who take the worst damage. Not this time._

Steph pauses to yank the fabric at a couple of spots around her head, shifting it so parts of her hair aren’t smashed down and itching against her neck so much. She shakes her arms out, dips the brush back in the bleach. This whole night is going to be one long race against time as she rushes to finish killing the moss she needs to kill before the sun comes up and doing it before every last one of her brush bristles get eaten through by the bleach. 

_If the police won’t listen to my letters,_ Steph thinks, _then this is the only thing to do, going straight to the citizens instead. We all deserve fair warning for once in our lives. And I’m going to make that happen._

Steph winces as a scream ricochets down the street from a block or two over. There’s nothing she can do, she’s made that mistake before. Has the bruises and healed ankle fracture to prove it. And what she’s doing isn’t more important, but it is a whole city in the balance. Another scream, and then it’s cut short. Stephanie tries hard not to remember, tries not to think. 

She sets her jaw, gripping the paintbrush even more tightly as she doubles her speed. 

_I’ll make it happen,_ she repeats to herself. _Whatever it takes_. 

* * *

Tim _knows_ this is a bad idea. He absolutely should not be out here in the dark, sneaking around the Wayne property like a spy. He’s not even close to being cleared for any sports yet, although he did get the go-ahead to start running around the property with Nova and Ace in the mornings again. And it’s not like Tim is trying to play rugby or something. He’s being _careful_. His head hardly even hurts anymore. 

Still. Tim’s pretty sure Alfred would have several choice words in mind if he knew Tim was risking life, limb, and further head injury by rappelling off the roof of the manor with a months-old anchor and no belayer. 

But he has to. _God_ , of _course_ it’s a stupid plan, but Tim _has_ to go see. 

Once he hits the ground, thankfully without incident (besides getting five years taken off his life when he accidentally startles a hidden pair of Juncos in their nest they and fly _straight_ into his face), Tim shoves the rope and his harness behind some of the bushes and promptly melts into the shadows. 

He _may_ or may not have borrowed one of Jason’s Lord of the Rings cosplay cloaks for the occasion. Tim will neither confirm nor deny. 

He’s definitely not in the Robin cape, _that’s_ for sure. A) Bruce has it firmly locked up in the Cave, thanks to experience with Tim’s never-stay-down predecessors, and b), there is, quite possibly, _nothing_ worse for sneaking around than the Robin costume. 

And _listen_ , Tim loves Dick, he really does, but for the love of everything holy, he will _never_ understand how Dick thought a job involving _sneaking around the darkness at night_ was a great fit for an outfit that makes the wearer become essentially an elfin street light with reinforced body armor underneath. Or how _Bruce_ somehow gave it his okay. 

To be fair, things do seem to work out all right despite the less-than-logical sartorial choices of Robin #1. And hey! At least they’ve let Tim wear _real pants_ . _I guess we can just chalk it up to both Dick and Bruce being kind of young, dumb, and sentimental back then,_ Tim thinks. _I mean. Bruce was only barely legal to drink alcohol by then, right? I’m pretty sure brains don’t finish developing till, what, age 25?_

See, Tim does remember _some_ things from biology. Just. Not the important-for-tests bits.

* * *

Anyway. 

Tim is sprinting across the lawn now, his bare feet rolling over the dew-covered grass, pointer finger hooked through the carrying loop on his shoes. He knows he told Bruce that he didn’t want to go back, that he couldn’t do that again, and it’s true. Tim doesn’t ever want to go back to that treatment center again if he can avoid it. But with every hour that’s passed, Tim has felt more and more guilty for leaving. 

His mom’s face as Tim glanced back on his way out is seared into his memory, as if someone had set off an old flash powder camera shot and burned it onto his brain like it was film. Tim’s late-night confessional to Bruce was hammered home by the clear decline of his mom’s appearance over the past few weeks since he saw her at Drake Manor. Tim is terrified she’ll die any _second_ at this point. Bruce and the doctor both reassured him that they’ll very likely have some warning first, but...it doesn’t change how Tim feels. 

He’s. They. 

Tim doesn’t know how to fix what’s between them, this ugly swirl of well-meaning love and lack of knowledge and pileup of hurt after hurt after hurt from both sides. Janet and himself were never good at playing their roles, he thinks, and that’s the real problem. She didn’t know how to be a mother, and Tim has never been a very good son. 

But she’s dying. Time is running out, and Tim’s spending too much of it trying to bury his head in the sand. He doesn’t know how to reconcile his mother who laughed and painstakingly taught him how to make challah bread and read long hard words like princess and obsequious when he was little with his mother who never seemed to be satisfied with anything he did and shouted easily and scolded even moreso. He’s been loved and he’s been hurt, and he doesn’t know how to hold both in his hands and be all right. 

He’s trying so hard. He doesn’t even know how to find the words to explain any of it to Dinah or Bruce or anyone else, or at least not the right way, but he’s trying. 

It’s not fast enough. 

Janet is going to die and Tim is going to spend his whole life guilty and wondering what would have been different if he’d just made up with her instead of being too afraid. He’s got to do it. 

So Tim is just...going over to see. He doesn’t know what the house is like anymore, with two adults in it all the time and no Tim. He doesn’t know what Jack and Janet are like when they don’t have to deal with him all day. He doesn’t know what the cancer has changed. He doesn’t know for sure that his mom is still alive after this afternoon, and he needs to see for himself. He’s not sure that Jack will really tell him right away if something happens. _It wouldn’t be the first time_ , he thinks bitterly. 

So. Make sure his mom is alive. That’s a go. 

Tim reaches his old house without incident, unsurprisingly, and hardly even has to think as he weaves around through the web of security camera blind spots. He may not be the most _elegant_ Gollum impersonator, but Tim knows this yard, these stones, this roof, like the inside of his favorite books. He’s _efficient_. 

Tim checks windows as he moves, creeping under awnings and around garden gnomes, pinwheels, and no fewer than six bird baths. None of them used to be here. 

_Mom’s been busy,_ he thinks. He’s faintly surprised. He wouldn’t have guessed she liked these kinds of things. _Or,_ he amends, _at least, someone has._ Tim doesn’t know what bird baths are going to do to fight terminal cancer, but hey. Tim has his own irrational coping mechanisms. He’s not going to judge. 

He checks every window on the first level before returning to the corner of the house with growing dread. He ditches his sneakers behind one of the perfectly-manicured evergreen bushes and takes a moment to rub the ache from his temple, put his head between his knees to re-center from his vague feeling of being off. He’s _fine_. After a few moments, he stands back up and shakes his arms out vigorously, one after the other. He’s _beyond_ ready to really _move_.

Tim lifts one hand, then the other, digs his toes in around the edges of asymmetrical stone and brickwork, and hauls himself up to the narrow stone ledge ringing the divide between floors. Tim balances precariously on the one-inch margin and creeps his way across to the room he’s now almost certain they’re in.

For better or for worse. In sickness and in health. Till death do them—

Tim swallows and shuts that train of thought down with extreme prejudice. He scoots over a few more yards before finally reaching out to cling to the edges of a window, stabilizing and shifting his feet to spread underneath him while his fingers take some of the burden. His plain jeans and MCR shirt—Jason’s, once upon a time, well-loved and very soft, gifted to Tim when Jason found out he likes the band too—are lit up in a golden tinge from the room within. 

Tim takes four deep breaths, holds the last one, and finally twists his head to look. 

And she’s there. In bed, still with oxygen tubing wrapped behind her ears, pale as a ghost and currently puking into a mixing bowl, but she’s _there_. 

Tim’s ribcage shatters a little in a way that has nothing to do with his bones. 

And there _he_ is, with her, Jack is, and his expression is so open and raw it makes Tim’s breath hitch in his throat. 

Jack’s left hand is rubbing Janet’s back in soft circles—like Tim never got except maybe as a baby, like Dick does for him _every time_ , like Tim always wondered at in his books—and his right hand is nestled over hers on the rim of the bowl, helping to hold it steady as he perches on the edge of the mattress at her side. He’s the very image of _tenderness_ , and this is—

Tim did not expect this. 

He didn’t think Jack would abandon Janet, or anything like that, but. 

But not.

Tim’s never seen them in love like this. He guesses the prospect of being separated forever put things in perspective, or made them remember the good times, or whatever, because whatever it is, Tim’s parents are clearly very, very much in love. Jack looks like he’s in pain right along with her. Janet finishes throwing up and her first move is to sigh and twist ever-so-slightly to drop her forehead against Jack’s shoulder while his arm comes up to massage her neck. 

Tim’s eyes burn hot, and he can’t look away. There is the weight of an ocean stilling his chest. 

_Were they always like this?_ he wonders. Have they always been this tender, this entwined, behind closed doors at the end of the day? Was this their lives, whenever they were away from Gotham on their trips? These gentle touches, the complete trust and love even while someone is puking into a bowl, even while the world is crumbling, even while they have to be so afraid and in pain—have they always loved each other this way?

Tim had thought that, maybe, he guessed, his parents just didn’t know how to relate. That they knew motions, and had good intentions, but didn’t understand past a certain point, weren’t able to fully empathize and put themselves in someone else’s shoes. But what he’s seeing—

 _Is it me?_ Tim whispers in his mind. _If they can do this, with each other. Why not with me? Has it been me this whole time, I’m the bad apple? Just—a poison on the family? Maybe it’s a good thing I’m gone. If this is what they can be without me. I guess—_

Tim looks away, trying to scrub away his damp eyelids and sudden headache at the same time. 

He looks back in, sees Jack pulling Janet in gently, watches her too-thin arms wrap around him in turn and latch behind his back, and then they share a slow, light, gentle kiss once, pull away just enough to glance into each others’ eyes with something a little like wonder and a lot like grief, Tim thinks, and then in again, and it’s the most chaste, tender, familiar kiss Tim’s seen in any movie or city bus, and Tim thinks again, _is it me._

_Is it me._

Jack brushes one of the remaining few wisps of Janet’s beautiful hair off of her forehead just like Bruce does for Tim, and Tim can’t do this. He can’t. 

His mom is alive. He got what he came for. It’s time for Tim to go. 

Tim scrambles his way back along the building with a lot more speed and a lot less care the second time around. After his third near-slip, he has to stop lying to himself and admit that he really shouldn’t have climbed this soon. He doesn’t feel well. He knows his balance is going off-kilter again, feels the headache and nausea rising, but honestly? He can hardly bring himself to care. 

Tim barely makes it to the ground before he goes down, ankles twisting, knees hitting the fluffy, freshly-tilled mulch, wrists catching him hard and keeping him from hitting it face-first. He throws up twice behind the manicured evergreen bush and gets enough on his shoes that they’ll have to go in the wash. 

Tim is efficient. He throws up, and he doesn’t get any stuck in his mouth, and he doesn’t get any on himself, and he stands up and moves on. Tim knows how to throw up without help. He doesn’t need water, or someone to hold his hair, or someone to rub circles on his back. He just gets it over with. 

It’s okay. It’s what he’s used to, what he learned. He doesn’t need anything else. He doesn’t need—he doesn’t need _them_. He’s glad! He’s glad, really, that they have this. That they’re happy with each other, or as happy as they can be, anyway, under the circumstances. He’s—he made his choice, right? He’s not a part of them anymore, he guesses. That was the deal. He wanted this. He made his bed, and now it’s time to lie down in it. 

But Tim stands, and the world swings around him, once, twice, and there’s a buzzing rising in his ears like never-ending cicadas. Tim sits down hard while he tries to breathe his way through the gray fog, counts in tens until he’s back in control. 

Yeah. Definitely shouldn’t have gone out tonight. Tim feels like he’s saying this a lot lately, but hey, hindsight really is 20/20, right?

Tim doesn’t know if he’s going to be able to make it past security again to get back to Bruce’s property line, much less sneak past Bruce’s security and back up to the roof at this point. Tim’ll be lucky if he can make it out from behind this bush. 

But he can’t call anyone, right? He can’t let his parents know. He’s not supposed to be here, and they don’t need or want him around anyway. Besides, they’re busy. Janet probably can’t even make it out of bed right now, and Jack’s pretty occupied with helping her. Also, Tim doesn’t want to know whether his dad would explode over Tim puking in their bushes in the middle of the night or not. He’d rather not find out one way or the other. 

Alfred is at the manor. But Alfred is like, the person Tim most especially can’t disappoint. He’d rather die than let Alfred know he messed up and disobeyed on purpose. Alfred just—he would be so good right now. He always knows what people need most even if they don’t, and he’d probably have some magic hand placement or a hand-mixed tea that would make Tim feel a lot better and he’d definitely have exactly the right words for Tim, that’s a guarantee. But Tim can’t call Alfred. There’s no way he’s having Alfred sneak over to the neighbors’ house to haul a wayward fifteen year old out of some bushes. Tim’s not a rowdy _toddler_ , thanks. 

Tim can’t face Bruce. He snuck out against literally every single order, both as Robin and as Tim, and both as Bruce’s foster kid and a ward of the state. He’s not even supposed to be on the Drake property unsupervised. And Bruce wouldn’t get him in trouble, but Tim—he can’t. He can’t do it. He can’t tell Bruce he fucked up like this. But he really, really wants Bruce. He just...wants to be held for a while by Batman. Pretend that everything will actually be okay, like he used to feel like it would be. 

Dick’s on duty tonight, driving his beat with his partner in the BPD. He’d drop everything and come if Tim called, but it’s not an emergency. And Dick has to, you know, actually show up and do his job if he wants to keep it. Tim’s not going to bother him. And Cass is at Dick’s as of a few hours ago, for some quality big brother bonding and a chance to see Bludhaven, since she’s never been there yet. Tim doesn’t want to cut that short, and besides, Cass can’t drive yet. She wouldn’t be able to help tonight.

Jason is out with Bruce. So it would be hard to get Jason back here without Bruce also knowing. But...Tim could tell Jason. Jason is—Jason is really safe. Tim can—Tim can do it. He hates it, hates interrupting patrol, but he also is not feeling any better with the passing minutes. _I think I really messed up,_ Tim thinks miserably. _I think I pushed too hard. Dr. Thompkins is gonna kill me. My head is probably gonna kill me first._

Tim pulls out his phone and hits Jason’s number. The ringer goes straight to Jason’s comm on a private line, just like Tim’s does when he’s in uniform. 

“Hello?” Jason answers, sounding slightly out of breath. 

Tim swallows, partly nerves, partly nausea. “Jason?” he says, and his voice is very small. 

The sound of air rushing past the mic abruptly stops. “Robin?” Jason questions, and Tim can almost hear the frown that he knows is crinkling Jason’s eyebrows now. 

“Yeah,” Tim says. “Um.” 

“Are you okay.”

“I...yes, I’m okay. Mostly. I just.” Tim sighs. “Can you. Can you come get me please.”

“Of course,” Jason says, quiet and serious. “Define ‘mostly’, and where are you?” He’s on the move again. Tim knows he’s probably signaled to Bruce, maybe said something while putting Tim his mic on mute, but Tim can just...keep ignoring that for now. 

“I feel really bad, Jason,” Tim whispers, and surprises himself as his voice breaks. Suddenly he’s tearing up all over again, and this time he can’t put on the breaks. “I’m at my house.”

“As in…”

“Drake Manor.”

“Got it,” Jason says, and somehow he manages to keep all judgement out of his tone. “It’s gonna be okay, baby bird. I’m coming. We’re twenty minutes away, okay? Stay on the line.”

“‘M not gonna pass out or anything,” Tim says, with a hint of a grumble.

“That’s great,” says Jason, deadpan. “I still want you to stay on the line. You don’t call for _anything_. Forgive me for being a little cautious.”

And, honestly, that’s fair. Tim will give him that. 

“Okay,” he says. “I puked on my shoes and I don’t think I can walk home.” And he stays. 

Jason doesn’t make him keep talking or anything like that, but they keep the line open between them, and Jason periodically gives Tim updates on how close they are. Tim practices his controlled breathing and tries not to puke in the marigolds as well. 

“My mom hates marigolds,” Tim mumbles absently. He’s breathing shallowly to stave off the nausea. It’s sort of working.

“What?” says Jason. “One minute away. B is keeping the Batmobile down the road and I’m coming on foot.”

“Mom _hates_ marigolds,” Tim repeats, realization fully dawning. He stares at them as if they hold the answers to life, the universe, and everything. “I should have known something was wrong this spring when the new landscapers came and planted some. Mom always tells them no marigolds. She says they’re tacky and wants brown-eyed susans instead. They planted marigolds. I should have known.” Tim blinks away more tears. “Jason. Why am I not good enough for them to want me around too?”

“Oh, baby,” Jason sighs, and Tim can hear his footsteps now, light as they are. He’s Robin, after all. Batman trained him well. 

And then Jason is there, crouching down. His hands are on Tim’s shoulders, warm and steady and oh, Tim didn’t realize he was cold too. There’s a sharp breeze in the summer night air, surprisingly cool for the season. Tim’s barefoot. 

“Your feet are purple,” Jason says. “Are you gonna puke on me if I pick you up?”

“I don’t know,” Tim says honestly. 

“Here.” Jason hands Tim a gallon-size ziplock bag, then takes another one and shoves Tim’s shoes inside before sealing it, careful to not touch any parts of them that got splashed earlier. “Puke in that if you need to.”

Tim nods, and braces himself as Jason loops his arm under Tim’s shoulders and knees and _heaves_. Jason’s tall now, and getting broader, but he’s still not Bruce. Tim hopes he’s not to heavy. 

“I’ve got you,” Jason says, those three familiar words. Tim doesn’t know that he’ll ever be tired of hearing them. He might not always believe them, but they always help. “B?” Jason says into the earpiece still hooked around his left ear. “I’ve got baby bird. We’re on our way back.”

Tim closes his eyes and tries not to dread the coming confrontation. He made the call. He asked Jason to come. He knew Bruce would find out. 

_He_ decided to sneak out. He spied on his parents. He took the risks, he’ll live with the consequences. 

“Okay, kiddo,” Jason murmurs as he shifts Tim’s weight closer to his own center of gravity so he can nudge the door further open with his knee after Bruce pops the handle for them from inside. “In we go.”

Tim clutches the ziplock bag close, but doesn’t throw up as Jason shoves him into the backseat. His older brother guides his head down onto the leather with special care, though, and tucks his own spare hoodie around Tim’s head and neck as extra cushioning. 

“Not taking any chances with your knocked-up noggin,” Jason quips, and then drops into the front seat before Tim’s mouth can think to shape itself into some kind of witty reply. 

Bruce starts to drive, smooth as Tim’s ever felt the Batmobile go, and Tim closes his eyes and waits for Judgement Day to come back in the Cave. 

* * *

Judgement Day, when it comes, arrives in the form of a large figure in a black cape looming over Tim, as that large figure is prone to doing. 

“Bruce,” Tim says, sorry and scared and longing all at the same time, and it shows. 

Batman just reaches in and hauls Tim out of the car into his arms, holds him tight against kevlar and smooth cape and the smell that’s always _Bruce_ , in costume or out, and Tim wants to relax while he still feels like he needs to run. 

Batman doesn’t say a word as he carries Tim over to a waiting Alfred, in the medical bay, and deposits him carefully onto a gurney. One of his large gloved hands guides Tim’s pounding head to rest on a soft pillow, and pauses for just a moment to hover over Tim’s head before it brushes Tim’s bangs away from his forehead just once.

Tim bursts into tears. Full, heavy, body-shaking cries, the kind that make him curl up on himself and feel like it’s never, ever going to end. Tim shakes himself apart on the gurney as Alfred quickly pulls two warm covers up over him and Bruce’s hands—because he _is_ Bruce now, cowl pulled down and face more open and gentle than Batman’s ever can be allowed to appear—never leave Tim’s cheek and neck.

Jason reappears sometime around the time Tim has mostly cried himself out. He’s holding the gel packs from the freezer out, and Tim doesn’t even have words for how grateful he is in that moment. His whole face feels like a swollen mess, and his neck is red and sweaty, and he feels like he just sat in a sauna for an hour and then wrapped up in vinyl clothes for funsies. 

Jason kisses Tim’s nose while Tim shoves one of the gel packs over his left eye, since his right is buried in the pillow at the moment. 

“I’m glad you’re safe,” Jason says. 

“Me too,” Tim mumbles. “Thank you for coming to get me.”

“Any time you call,” Jason says. “I’m your big brother. It’s what I’m here for.”

Tim blinks, long and heavy, and his breath hitches once. If he had anything left, he’d have started crying again right then and there.

“Tim,” Bruce says, finally, and gently, and he’s not mad? He’s not—

“You’re not mad?” Tim croaks out, through a throat filled with gravel. And. 

_“Tim,”_ Bruce says again, different this time. “Sweetheart. _Never._ I’m worried about you. I want to make sure you’re okay. You must have had a really big reason to sneak out of the manor and go to your old house in the middle of the night. What happened, Tim?”

Tim closes his eyes. He knows Bruce is kind. He knows Bruce has never once shoouted at Tim except to warn him about danger. He knows Bruce has never hit or punished him outside of training moves. But the reassurance settles Tim’s fear, finally, and now there’s nothing distracting him from the pit of gaping pain it was covering up. 

“I needed to see she was still alive,” Tim says into the pillow, while Alfred’s steady hands start swiping at his skin with a washcloth from the gods. “I know it’s stupid, I should have called or something, but I just—”

“You had to see for yourself,” Bruce says gently. His hands don’t leave Tim, except to lift momentarily so Alfred can slide the washcloth underneath them. “I understand. What happened?” 

“I climbed down from the roof and snuck over,” Tim admits. “Like I used to. Um. I looked in a lot of windows but I couldn’t see Mom or Dad, and I—” Tim pauses, momentarily confused, as Alfred slides the blood pressure cuff up onto his arm. “Uh. I climbed up to the second floor and scooted along until I found them. In their room. They were.” He swallows. Can’t seem to keep going. 

“Did you hit your head again at all?” Bruce asks, serious. 

_No,_ Tim signs, fingers snapping together with much less force than usual. He can almost hear everyone’s looks of relief. _Sick, hurt,_ his fingers jab out, and he shifts on the gurney, knowing it’s way too vague, but he can’t pull vocabulary he doesn’t know yet from thin air. 

“Some symptoms came back,” Bruce rephrases, and, yes. _Exactly._ Thank you, Bruce’s uncanny ability to understand his children’s broken speech abilities in times of stress. 

_Yes_ , Tim signs, knocking a few times in midair. He lets his hand drop back to the gurney. 

“Can you tell me anything else?” Bruce asks, not pushing, but not giving up either. Tim huffs a little through his nose. 

There’s a long pause, which Alfred uses to shine the godawful pen light into Tim’s eyes. Unlike when he got the concussion, though, there’s none of the stabbing, lancing pain, so Tim figures that’s a good sign. 

Tim takes a deep breath, then forces his eyes open to look at Bruce. 

“Why don’t they love me like they love each other?” Tim asks, voice hardly making it through the sentence. “What did I do _wrong?”_

Tim was mistaken. There are a few tears leaking down his cheek and across his nose again, to soak into the already-damp pillowcase. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” Bruce says, sounding so, so sad. He reaches out and wraps his arms around Tim, pulling him off the gurney to nestle carefully in his lap as he sits down where Tim was just lying. Tim just lets himself be moved. “Timmy. Baby, _no_. It’s not your fault. None of it has ever been your fault.” 

“But if I’d just been better,” Tim says desperately, while a tear hits Bruce’s kevlar chest plate and starts to roll down the bat symbol. “I could’ve been more obedient—I’m always getting distracted and not keeping things clean enough, or, or if I just didn’t backtalk and yell, I’d hate it if my kid did that too me too, nobody wants to be around someone who yells at them and fights all the time—”

“No,” Bruce says firmly. “Tim. You couldn’t have changed anything by being perfect, even if it were possible. You are more than good enough. It’s not your fault that your parents choose to act the ways they do. You don’t deserve it, and it is not supposed to be your job to regulate their emotions or behavior. They’re adults. You’re their child. It’s not your fault, Tim.”

“But—”

“Tim, if no one wants to be around someone who fights and argues all the time, then doesn’t that go for you, too?” Jason asks. “Your dad was doing it to you. Did you enjoy that?”

“No,” Tim says, “but—”

Bruce holds him tighter. “It’s not your fault,” he says. Shushes Tim as he tries to speak again. “It was never your fault. It’s not your fault.”

Tim buries his face in Bruce’s cape and cries the last few tears he has left. Jason sits down next to Bruce on the gurney and leans against his father’s shoulder, placing one hand on Tim’s knee. 

“I just want them to want me back,” Tim chokes out, finally dry of tears. His throat feels like hell, his eyes are swollen worse than they’ve maybe ever been, and Bruce is _safe_. Alfred leans against the counter now, a bottle of water and a pill or two waiting for when Tim is ready. 

“I know,” Bruce says, so, so softly. “I know, Tim. I’m sorry. I know.” His thumb brushes over Tim’s healing temple, soft as a feather. “I know it hurts.”

“It feels like you’ve got a hole ripped through your middle,” Jason says quietly, “and all your sand is pouring out, and there’s no way you’re going to be whole again.” They all pause for a moment, before Jason adds, “But that’s not true.” He leans over, catches Tim’s eyes, and Tim pulls his face out of Bruce’s cape for a moment to see him better. 

“It does get better,” Jason says. “I swear. It’s been getting better for you already, this past year, you’ve come so far Tim. And it hurts like absolute hell, but you’ve got us, forever, and we’re never going to not want you, buddy. I picked you when you were still a scrawny nerdy little shrimp in an ice cube asleep at a desk, remember? And I’m not going to ditch you. You’re stuck with us for life. It’s not your fault that your parents can’t appreciate you the way you deserve. You’re a fucking amazing little brother, and I’m sorry your parents are so shitty, but I’m never going to be sorry that I get to be your family. I love you so much.”

Neither Bruce nor Alfred scold Jason for his language this time. 

“And I love you too,” Bruce says, firm and solid and not the slightest waver in his voice. “So, so much. No matter what you do, no matter who you become, I will always love you and you’ll always have a place here in my family.”

“And I,” Alfred adds, calm and gentle as the tea he and Tim share on sleepless late nights, “love you just as much as I love everyone else in this family. You’re _ours,_ Master Timothy. I think you’ll find that we do not let our family go so easily as you fear.”

Tim closes his eyes, breathes deeply several times. Thinks, and breathes through his throbbing head, and thinks again, turning their words over and over in his mind until they start to make some sense, even if he’s still working on the feelings part. He opens his eyes again, looking each one of them in the eyes in turn. 

“I love you too,” Tim says. “I’m so sorry. I love you so much. I _love_ you. You’re the best family I’ve ever seen. I don’t know how I deserve this.”

“It’s not about deserve,” Bruce says, smiling at Tim now. He steadies Tim’s hand as he drinks from the glass Alfred hands over, and watches Tim swallow the pills until he’s sure Tim won’t choke. “It’s a choice of giving. Love is free, Tim, we’re giving it to you and we want to share. That’s what family is.”

“Sharing is caring,” Jason says in a sing-song voice. His voice goes up an octave and he recites “Ohana means _family_. And family means nobody gets left behind bushes at their parents’ house at 2 a.m. in the morning with a concussion.”

Tim snorts out a laugh for the first time in at least a day. 

“That’s terrible,” Tim says. 

“You signed up for this,” Jason fires back, jabbing a finger at Tim. 

“I’m pretty sure you just dragged me out of school and into your family, actually,” Tim says, because, yeah. Basically. 

“You’re family now,” Jason says with a grin, waggling his eyebrows. “No takebacks. You’re stuck with us for life, and it’s my sworn duty to annoy you to death as your older brother and show up for every ride-or-die situation till the end of the world.”

“Same for me, but in reverse,” Tim says, because he can’t be one-uppped like that, and also he loves Jason to pieces. “I’d die for you.”

“Please don’t,” Bruce says, sounding pained. 

“Seconded,” Alfred says. 

“Sorry,” says Tim, “but. You know. I mean it. I love you.”

Jason ruffles his hair, careful to avoid the areas he knows are tender. “Love you too, baby bird. Come on,” he says, tugging at both Bruce and Tim as he hops off the gurney. “If Bruce isn’t too tired to carry you, we’ve got a California-king-size bed to pile on in B’s room and watch Queer Eye till we fall asleep and everything seems more okay with the world.”

“That’s actually a fantastic idea,” Tim says, as Bruce holds him more securely while heading for the stairs. Jason strides along beside them. “I’m pretty sure I can walk, now,” he adds, looking up at Bruce. Bruce glances down for a moment with a quick smile.

“If it’s all the same to you,” he says, “I’d rather carry you for a bit and not risk it.”

 _“No more monkeys falling off the bed,”_ Jason sings.

Tim kicks Jason’s arm as best he can with the limited range his foot has while he’s in Bruce’s arms. “That’s not even how it goes, stupid,” he says good-naturedly, and things are not okay, and Tim still _hurts_ , a lot, but sometimes a distraction really is the best thing for a moment, and they’re going to watch Queer Eye and probably cry some more, thanks Fab Five, and Tim isn’t going to be alone tonight, and as much as he wants to have the kind of love from his parents that he saw them sharing with each other...he does have it. Right now. 

Not from _them_ , but Tim _does_ have a family, he keeps reminding himself, and it’s weird, and a little broken, and _someone_ wakes up screaming almost every night of the week in a rotating cast, but. It’s _his_ , and it’s full of touches and patiences and love, and it is, he hopes, going to be enough. Jason promised. And Tim? 

Tim trusts him. What are older brothers for?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kate stop hurting Timothy for ONE (1) chapter challenge 2k20?????? Hello? @ me? 
> 
> There's a godawful sleet and freezing ice storm tomorrow so let's keep our fingers crossed my car doesn't decide to get acquainted with any more trees this time. @ god pls i just wanna make it to the weekend without any incidents so I can SLEEP and write thanks. Depending on how that goes, next chapter will be up either on Saturday or on Sunday. EDIT: y’all. there is so much ice. I’m working on replying to all your lovely comments but it’s gonna take me about 2-3 hours to get home from work so uh. sorry for the delay!!
> 
> SLEEP, HYDRATE, EAT SOMETHING, TAKE YOUR MEDS, say one nice thing to yourself today! I'm proud of you! Good job doing your best. You're making it through another day, and that's no easy feat. <3
> 
> as always, you can find me on tumblr as @goldkirk! I’m always happy to talk, answer questions, you name it.


	10. the big picture in a small frame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason cares about things A Whole Lot once he gets going, which should surprise absolutely no one who knows him. This time he's dragging everyone into it. Bruce is great at scheming and also borderline corporate espionage? Tim falls in love with a new friend. Cass shushes Jason once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the long wait! Have a light, happy chapter to apologize for how much angst I've posted lately! 
> 
> **Content Warning:** mentions of some animal mistreatment. 
> 
> Chapter title is from "Big Love, Small Moments" by JJ Heller.

“Get _up!”_ Jason hollers, and the next thing Tim knows, a pair of sneakers is hitting him in square the face. 

“Flu _buh_??” Tim says, offended. He swipes the shoes into his lap and shoves up onto his elbows, hindered by the _extremely_ squishy couch cushions that seem determined to hold him prisoner. 

He blinks a few times, trying to orient himself. The TV that had been playing _Partridge Family_ reruns is off—probably Alfred’s doing, when he came through at some point to check on them. 

Cass, still curled up in the nearby armchair (Bruce’s favorite, of course), appears to be wide awake, but Tim knows her well enough by now to tell that she, too, has been woken up from their impromptu nap unexpectedly. Her boots are still laced up, tucked underneath her where she sits. Alfred’s probably screaming on the inside over that over his afternoon cup of tea. But with Cass, they all know to pick their battles strategically. For now, it’ll keep. 

_Jason,_ however, is standing on the rug looking poised for a fight, or an aggressive ballroom dance. One or the other. 

Tim clears his throat and sits up straight, swinging his sock feet onto the floor. 

“What’s going on?” he asks, as he leans down to pull on one of the shoes without question. 

“Corporations are terrible,” Jason says, “and we’re going to go right some ethical wrongs.”

“Uh huh,” says Tim. He tugs a bow knot snug before moving onto the other shoe. “What is it this time?” 

_“Fish,”_ Jason hisses, and, _wow,_ Tim hasn’t actually seen him this outraged since they took down that puppy mill back in February. 

February had been...a lousy month all around. Bruce had taken Jason out back with some of the old china plates after that one, and Tim watched from one of the upstairs windows as Jason smashed every last one of them in the empty pool before letting Bruce finally tug him into a long hug and out of the bitter cold. 

“Fish?” Tim echoes, pushing himself up off the couch. To his right, Cass is already up and bouncing on the balls of her feet. 

“Fish,” Jason says again. He turns and sweeps out of the room, shoulders rising up towards his ears and murder in his step. 

“Where are we going?” Tim asks, speedwalking to keep up with his taller older brother. Long legs aren’t fair, he grumbles to himself. Even Cass is taller than me. I need to hit my growth spurt sometime this century. 

“Dad,” Jason says flatly, and then he shoves open the door to Bruce’s study and barges right in. 

* * *

“Bruce,” says Jason, with preternatural calm. “I need you to drive us to Petco.” 

Bruce eyes his second eldest for a solid four beats, the very slightest hint of a squint at the corners of his eyes. 

“Jason,” Bruce says. “You have a car. You’ve been driving for two years.”

“I am emotionally distraught,” Jason says slowly, calmly, “and also you need to speak to a manager.”

“Ah,” says Bruce. He nods as if he actually does see. Tim exchanges a glance with Cass and shoves his hands hard into the pocket on his hoodie. Bruce pushes his chair back from the desk and stands, setting his reading glasses down before rounding the corner and following Jason’s lead out the door. “And what are we going to Petco for?” 

“Fish,” Jason says, and that’s the last they get out of him for the whole drive there.

* * *

“Do you think Jason is okay?” Tim whispers into Cass’ ear. They both take a moment to stare at the back of Jason’s head, partially blocked by the headrest of the front seat. 

Cass shrugs. 

Tim sighs and undoes his seat belt, popping the door open to hop out behind Jason. _I guess we’re about to find out._

* * *

“Okay, kids,” Jason says, walking quickly through the store. “What do you know about fish?”

“Um,” says Tim. “They live in water. There are lots of kinds. Some people keep them as pets. And, uh, Mariana’s Trench is terrifying and the ocean holds untold numbers of indescribable sea creatures I don’t want to ever see in a nightmare again.”

Jason briefly gives him a look, half question, half judgement. 

“I had a really enthusiastic 7th grade science teacher, okay!” Tim defends. 

“Okay, fair,” says Jason. 

Cass tugs on his sleeve to make sure he looks over, pauses for a moments, and then simply signs _wet_. 

Jason actually laughs for a second. “You’re not _wrong_. Okay. Well. Listen,” he says, stopping them suddenly as they round a corner. He gestures at the endcap they’re standing in front of, full of little cubbies with small plastic containers in many of them. “Betta fish are one of the most common fish for people to get as a pet, because they’re pretty and there’s a common misconception that they do really well in pretty shitty setups. Small bowls, big plants, no filter, you name it. Lies, but even the pet stores and tank companies perpetuate them. I mean look at this!” 

Jason yanks a box from below the racks, and holds it out for inspection. Bruce leans in, face dark. His arms fold carefully across his chest, and one hand reaches up to very, very carefully rest with his pointer finger across both lips. Tim knows that look. Tim sees that look every time Bruce is on a conference call having to listen to some very stupid business propositions from the board, and is patiently biding his time while he thinks out the mental chess moves he’ll execute to systematically destroy someone’s plan. 

“Do you _see_ this shit,” Jason hisses, careful to keep his tone down as one of the store employees passes nearby. “This is a half gallon plastic box, and it’s got a cheap plastic sheet in it so you can stick two bettas in there and pray they don’t get over the top of it and tear each other to shreds? This thing isn’t even big enough for one betta alone. But they’re advertising it as a betta tank, specifically, and selling it right next to the fish. _Unaceptable_.” Jason smacks his hand against the box once, glaring as if it’s personally wronged him. He sticks it back where it came from and sighs, scrubbing a fist against one eye while he takes a moment. 

Bruce steps closer and puts one arm around Jason, firm and grounding. “That is terrible,” he says calmly. “So what are we here to do?”

Jason takes a deep breath and straightens slightly, looking around to meet each person’s gaze before continuing. Whatever this is, Tim realizes, it’s going to sure be _something_. Jason has the look that means business, and the first time Tim saw it Jason set up a skatepark in Tim’s backyard with plywood and sheet metal, and the last time Tim saw it Jason, Tim, and Dick had spent three days single-handedly turning an abandoned lot in the city into a neighborhood garden because Jason saw a kid playing there fall and get cut by a piece of rusted exhaust pipe someone had junked in the tall grass. 

“There are twelve adult bettas languishing in these little cups,” Jason says. “I called ahead. That’s one thing, it’s kind of forgivable, you know, they can’t put them in a big tank. But they could put them in separated mini tanks, like real aquarium stores do, and make sure they’re still getting healthy filtered water and everything. But what is unforgivable for real,” he says, face tightening. “Is the babies.” 

Jason’s finger jabs at a side rack, just around the corner from the endcap. Tim sticks his head around and sees more of the little cups, but instead of adult betta fish, the little ones in these cups are so small it takes him seconds to spot several of them. Two are already dead, floating at the top of the water belly-up, and several are aimlessly drifting at the bottom of the little containers or darting away from any sudden movement outside their cup. 

“They’re only as big as my fingernail,” Bruce says, and a frown is now firmly settled onto his face. 

“I know,” Jason says. He sounds tired, now. “They’re too young. The adults are delicate enough, and these baby bettas are supposed to be, like...a novelty thing. ‘Buy a baby betta, look how cute it is! You get to raise it and watch it grow!’”

“Bad,” says Cass. Her finger delicately strokes the side of one of the cups, and the tiny fish inside hardly stirs. 

“Very bad,” Jason agrees. 

“Jason.” says Tim. He’s already pulled one of the cups off the shelf, cradling it to his chest as he watches the little baby inside struggle to keep the weight of its own tiny body from sagging downwards with just its almost-invisible front fins. “We’re buying the fish. Right?”

 _“We’re buying the fish,”_ Jason says with a sharp nod, and looks at Bruce. “B. Hey.” 

“Yes,” Bruce says, scowling at the display, one foot already twisted to aim outside of their little circle of four. “We are buying the fish. I assume you’ve already done research on how to take care of many temporarily in a humane fashion?” 

Jason nods. “There’s a girl on YouTube who’s aces at it. We just need to stop by the hardware store for some things.” He bumps Bruce’s shoulder with his own, following the man’s gaze to the store manager’s office door. “Go get ‘em, tiger. This is why we brought you.”

 _“I_ brought _you_ all,” Bruce mutters, but he’s already heading off. “Get the fish and any supplies we need into a cart and go check out. I’ll join you in by the car.”

“Thank you, Dad!” Jason says cheerfully. He turns to Tim and Cass. “All right, squirts. Cass, grab a cart and bring it over here. Tim, get several kinds of betta food, and make sure you nab some bloodworms while you’re over there. And get like, at least fifty live plants. No. However many they have in the store, I don’t even care. We’ve got to give these poor fish places to hide. I’ll start pulling all the ones off the shelf that are still alive.”

“I’m keeping this one,” Tim says, holding the baby betta’s cup a little closer when Jason reaches out to add it to the stack he’s just started. 

Jason raises his hands in a gesture of surrender for a moment before turning back to the rack instead. “Okay. That’s fine, just don’t drop it while you’re carrying all those plants. Let’s go, people.”

They get to work. 

* * *

“—absolutely unacceptable conditions. Completely unethical,” Bruce is saying. 

The manager is looking more distraught by the second. Tim almost swears he can see beads of sweat on the young man’s forehead. 

“Sir, I hear you. But I can assure you that—” 

“Listen,” Bruce cuts the man off. “Can you look me in the eyes and swear to me honestly that you chose to get a job at a pet store and aren’t bothered by this? Not even a little?” Bruce takes a step closer to the manager as the nervous-looking teenage cashier and Wayne kids all watch in undisguised rapture. Bruce’s voice drops even lower, now, soft and sympathetic. Tim strains a little to hear. 

“Here comes the final blow,” Jason whispers, entirely too gleeful. He absentmindedly leans one foot and his chest against the now-full cart and rocks it forward and back a couple inches, back and forth, and one wheel squeaks every half-turn. It’s driving Tim crazy more than the way that the tops of the plastic bags are rustling in the breeze from the fans that have been set up near the cash registers. He’s trying to _hear_.

“Do you like animals? Is that why you wanted to work here?” Bruce is asking. 

The man nods. He looks relieved and terrified and a little like he’s going to hurl all over Bruce’s Timberland boots in the next few seconds, but pulls himself together enough to speak. 

“I wanted to be a veterinarian,” he says, and looks a little surprised that he admitted that. “I just—life happened, and I had to drop out of school, and, well, you know. Rent and all. And I thought, hey, at least I’ll still get to work with animals, and I’ll get discounts on the food for my snakes—”

“You keep snakes?” Bruce says, genuinely interested. Cass huffs out a soft little laugh. 

“Yeah,” the manager nods eagerly now. “Four beauties. Had ‘em for years now, ever since I used to work at a mom-and-pop fish and reptile store back home.”

“That’s wonderful,” Bruce says quietly. “I can tell you love them very much.”

“Yeah. They’re—they’re my babies,” the manager says, and shrugs helplessly. “I don’t like the way the fish are treated any more than you do, sir, honest. Just—please, I should have said that.” The man looks horrified. “Please, I know I have no right to ask this, but could you—that was unprofessional of me. I apologize for my slip. Please don’t tell my supervisor.”

“Of course not,” says Bruce, and his voice is warm. He reaches out one hand, sets it on the man’s shoulder slowly, and there it is, Tim thinks. Bruce has it. He’s sealing the deal. 

“Daniel,” Bruce says. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you. I’m sorry for confronting you like this. I know it’s not your fault that the company has chosen to handle the animals this way, and I’m sure you’ve been doing the best you can with limited options. I’d like to offer you a job.”

Daniel stares, mouth open slightly. “You,” he gets out, just barely. “You want. What?”

“I’d like to offer you a job,” Bruce repeats, smiling. “That is, after you go back to school and get your veterinary training. Wayne Enterprises has a not-insignificant number of working dogs for various purposes, security, therapy dogs, you name it. Also a good number of large fish tanks throughout the buildings, and if I have my way, soon a few reptile ones too. Right now we have a few veterinarians on retainer, but one of my goals is to hire someone more permanently who I know will really care about the animals and be on hand full time. Would that interest you?”

“I—well, yeah! Absolutely, I’d be, uh, I’d be honored, Mr. Wayne, but I can’t go back to school just like that. It might take—it’s probably going to be a while. Sir.”

“Why’s that?” Bruce frowns, looking puzzled. 

“Well. I don’t have the money, right now,” the manager explains, and Tim watches Daniel seem to physically deflate. “I lost my old scholarships when I dropped out, and I don’t have enough savings yet to go back even if I was able to reinstate them.”

“Oh, is that all?” Bruce laughs. “David, I guess I forgot to mention, this position is—say a contract of sorts. Wayne Enterprises will pay your tuition so long as you agree to work for us for a few years after you graduate.”

“What?” Daniel breathes. “You’re serious?”

“I am.”

“You’re really serious? Just like that?” 

“Just like that.” 

“I—but—wow,” Manager Daniel says finally, raking a hand through his hair once, twice. “I don’t even know what to say. This is the weirdest day of my life.”

“Say yes,” Bruce chuckles, putting an arm around Daniel’s shoulders. “And then take my business card so we can hash out details later. I could use your insights on the policy here in these stores while my lawyers and I draft some letters to your company’s higher ups, once you’ve given your two week’s notice, of course. Did I mention the deal includes a living stipend, so you don’t have to worry about paying for rent while you’re between jobs?”

Daniel gives Bruce an appraising look, then. 

“And I won’t get in any trouble for helping with that?” he asks. 

“Not a bit,” Bruce says. “Not while I have any say in it.”

“Okay then,” says Daniel. “Okay, sir. You’ve got a deal. Thank you. Thank you so much!”

One of these days, Tim is going to get Bruce to teach him strategy. Tim’s good, but he’s not that good. Yet. Bruce is just. On a whole nother level. 

“Wow,” Cass says quietly, and Jason nods, whistling quietly through his teeth. 

“Wow,” Tim agrees. 

Bruce shakes Daniels hand and claps the man on the back once before walking over to his children. He pauses, looking over the contents of the shopping cart Jason has finally stopped rolling back and forth, and appears to think hard for a moment. 

“Jason,” he says. “Go grab one of the tank starter kits, a ten gallon one. And grab some betta-safe tank decorations and blue gravel while you’re at it, will you? Whatever looks good. Dick’s getting a pet whether he likes it or not.”

“Yes,” Jason crows. “Fucking finally. I told him we were going to make it happen no matter what his landlord says.”

“His landlord hasn’t actually had a say in over a year,” Bruce says, waving a hand. “I bought Dick’s complex ages ago. We just have a deal about it so he doesn’t know. Dick could get a Great Dane that barks every night at 2 a.m. and that landlord wouldn’t bat an eyelash.”

“B,” Jason says, sounding fond. “That’s so overprotective of you. It’s adorable.”

“You kids are my most precious investment in life,” Bruce says, very seriously. “I protect my investments however I can. I never want to take away your freedoms, but I won’t ever stop doing what I can to keep you safe, within reason.”

Tim doesn’t think he could say anything to that right now if he tried, with how tight his throat has suddenly gotten. He tugs on Bruce’s sleeve.

 _Love you,_ he signs, commanding his chin to not wobble. 

“Tim,” Bruce says warmly. “I love you too.”

“Aw, nuts,” Jason says, laughing. “Bruce. That was too sappy. We’re in public.” 

Cass sends Jason a mock-severe look while raising a finger to her lips in the universal sign for _shhhh_ . _Love father,_ Cass signs right after that, and Bruce taps her fondly once right on the tip of her nose. 

“All right, point taken,” Jason says, grinning, and slaps Bruce’s shoulder as he walks off to the tank aisle. “I’ll be right back. This is going to be great, I can’t wait to see Dick’s face. You’re a genius, B.”

Bruce reaches out and catches both Tim and Cass around the shoulders, one under each arm, and tugs them in close. The blonde cashier _stares,_ only looking away when Cass meets her eyes and frowns. 

“I do have my moments, I suppose,” Bruce says, and kisses them both on the crowns of their heads. “I suppose both of you will want to keep a fish of your own?”

 _Yes,_ Cass signs, knocking her fist in the air with so much enthusiasm her whole arm shakes. 

Tim just holds up the cup he still holds. Bruce nods approvingly and glances down at the cart. 

“Well,” he says lightly. “This was not what I had expected for my Friday off, but I’m glad we did this.”

“Bonding time,” Tim says. 

“Only in this family,” Bruce laughs. “Come on. Let’s start getting these poor fish into the car before Jason comes out. We need to clear some room in the trunk for him to set the tank down.”

* * *

“What is _up,_ little dudes,” Dick says, dropping down over the back of the couch to land nearly on top of Jason and Tim, who are sitting tangled together watching Cartoon Network reruns of _Foster’s Home for Imaginary Friends_. 

“You’re sure back early,” Jason grumbles, shoving at Dick’s hip until he relents and shifts over a few inches. “Thought you were going to Titans Tower today.”

“I did,” says Dick. “I got to the entrance and there was a laminated orange sign saying _Don’t open the doors, archery practice in progress,_ and I heard a lot of yelling. Whatever Roy is up to this weekend, I decided to not get involved.”

“Probably wise,” Jason conceded. “I don’t know how you put up with half of the stuff you deal with there.”

“It’s an acquired taste,” Dick laughs. “But I like having the team. They’re like a second family. Who I regularly have near-death experiences and pizza parties with.”

“So, like us,” Tim says, grinning. He shrieks for a solid few seconds while Dick tickles him without mercy, and finally cries uncle. 

“More or less,” Dick agrees, smiling back as he leans away from Tim and back into the cushions. Tim is just catching his breath when Jason speaks up, not looking away from the screen.

“Oh, by the way,” he says, “we got you a fish.”

“You what.” Dick blinks. 

“A fish,” Jason says patiently. “You know. Small, scaly, swims around in water, fun to look at?”

“A fish,” Dick says. 

“A fish,” Jason repeats. “Is there an echo in here?”

“What do you mean a fish?”

Tim grabs Dick’s face, one cheek squished under each hand, and turns Dick so he’s looking Tim right in the eyes. “He means we got you a pet fish, and you have to take it back with you to the apartment, because we might have gone on a crusade to rescue every single betta fish Petco had today and if Alfred has to see _one_ more fish in this house I think we’re all going to be eating store-brand canned soup every meal for a week.” 

Dick opens his mouth to protest. 

“Dick,” Tim says. “I am begging you. Please take the fish. Bruce even had us get you a nice tank and everything.”

“I even make sure to get the Spongebob pineapple decoration for it,” Jason adds helpfully. Dick actually does perk up at that. 

“Well…” he says.

“You deserve a pet too,” Jason says firmly. Tim nods. 

“I guess...for a little while,” Dick says. “If it’ll help out.”

“Please,” Jason says. “One less fish to worry about right now would be nothing short of miraculous. We’re gonna adopt them out, but it’s slow going. We want to make sure the people they go to are gonna take care of them right.

“No county fair fish-dies-the-next-day situations,” Tim agrees. 

“Where is the fish,” Dick sighs. He doesn’t sound particularly upset. “If I’m taking one home, I want to bond.”

“Come on,” Jason says, grinning. He hauls Dick up from the couch, taking one of the eldest’s arms while Tim loops his own arm through the other. “We’ve got them all set up in the greenhouse. Your new friend awaits!” 

* * *

Late that night, when Tim has crawled into bed with Nova after a long night of helping Alfred man the comms while the rest of the family patrolled, Tim rolls over and watches the tiny betta fry swim in short bursts around the new tank he set up for it. 

The fish wiggles over to the glass corner closest to Tim and hovers for a moment, fighting to keep itself up before finally dropping back down to rest on the gravel for a minute. It’s so small, Tim keeps losing sight of it for seconds at a time in the big tank. Bruce had warned him that since his baby as the smallest—as far as they could tell, it was likely only three weeks old, or so—it might still die from the trauma of so much poor water quality so young, even if Tim gives it the best care he can. 

He watches for a few minutes, marveling at how something so tiny and so abandoned in that store can still be so willing to keep going and exploring a new home, and thinks, _I can’t let this one die. I won’t. It’s not in the cards._

“I know I don’t have a name for you yet,” he whispers. “But I love you anyway. Just so you know. I’m gonna take care of you, I promise. It’s gonna be okay, little buddy. I’ve got you.”

The fish wiggles up against the glass as if it understands, fighting valiantly to keep its little body afloat, then finally drifts off to go rest on a plant leaf. 

Tim smiles. He reaches out, turns out the aquarium light, and rolls over to sling one arm around Nova, who shuffles closer to him in turn. When he woke up in the morning, he’d have to deal with his mom’s weekly update, and go see Leslie for a (hopefully final) post-concussion checkup, and go back to the normal stresses he’s juggling. But today, he didn’t actually think about his parents once. He’d gone on an adventure with his family. He got to watch Dick coo over his new pet (promptly named Captain America because of his red, white, and blue coloring. Jason shook his head and said wryly “I should have known.”), and fall in love with a helpless little new pet of his own. He was feeling pretty much back to normal—even Alfred agreed—and he was ready for good things to happen. 

He’s got his new family, he’s got his dog, he’s got his _very_ comfy bed, he’s got his new baby fish. It’s not a bad life. Tim just crosses his fingers and hopes that this time, the calm might actually last. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DRINK, EAT, TAKE YOUR MEDS, GET REST. Say something nice to yourself today. 
> 
> I'm probably adding ANOTHER five chapters onto this, because I have a Real Plot I want to write lol, and it's gonna take a little bit to build up to. Hope you don't mind! And Steph comes back next chapter, promise.


	11. raised by wolves, independent, born to kill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I meant for this to be a general shenanigans plus Stephanie plot chapter, but it turned itself into a Cass plotline with a side dish of Tim and Bruce Batman-and-Robin-ing by some gargoyles. Tim supports Batman like a good Robin, feelings are shared, Cass has a Bad Night, and Bruce always has hope for his kids' futures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content Warning:** References to past child abuse by Cass's terrible horrible "dad", use of restraint hold and a sedative. No needles mentioned, but there is mention of an injection. (Just skip the short paragraph after Bruce says "sedative" and you're good to go.)
> 
> This was a DAY, I got home from nannying 24/7 for 3 days and then not too long afterwards spent a couple frantic hours trying to help find a pseudo-runaway nephew, it was a Whole Thing and I'm tired and don't have time to edit this rn, so pardon any typos! I'll be back later to fix it.
> 
> Chapter title is from "Raised by Wolves" by Geoffroy.

From the first day that Tim gets clearance to start patrolling again with the family, it’s as if some finger of God put life on fast forward for the rest of the week, and Tim is hanging on for dear life.

His first night back on patrol starts out mostly uneventful; no major crimes, no sighting of the mysterious purple cloak. Bruce purposefully plans to follow a couple less-risky routes so that Tim can ease back in without falling face-first into a Riddler scheme first thing. 

Batman and Robin take a breather on a ledge dotted with gargoyles on top of one of the older banks after spending several minutes straight grappling around Gotham U’s campus to spot any petty crime happening. 

“You know,” Tim says, squinting through the mask’s lenses over in the direction of the island. “It’s been...kind of quiet this year, hasn’t it?”

Batman _hmmms,_ turning to follow Tim’s gaze across Midtown up towards Arkham Asylum. 

“Nightwing and I were discussing that the other night,” he admits. “Not to complain, of course—I’ll take a thousand nights of stopping the exact same muggings, rapes, and petty thefts with a side helping of mob schemes over dealing with _one_ more supervillain scheme in a heartbeat. People are happier, safer. Doing better in general. It’s been a breath of air for the whole city. Especially in the middle of this heat wave, when crime usually jumps up as quickly as the thermometer mercury does. But the Commissioner and I have both been getting...concerned.”

“What seems to good to be true usually is?” Tim offers, one side of his mouth ticking up into a smile. 

“Yes.”

“It’s weird,” Tim goes on, as he sweeps his cape underneath him carefully and drops down to sit on the ledge, feet kicking out into midair. “I think we’ve had enough mass breakouts to last a lifetime already, but usually at least one of them is up to _something_. Scarecrow picks a new reason to target the city, Riddler gets bored and decides to spice things up, Mr. Freeze’s wedding anniversary comes around again, Joker—well. Joker...decides it’s time to try to destroy the illusion of society and order and moral codes again, I guess. Whatever. It’s just—none of them have broken out this summer. Not once. I don’t get it.” 

Batman nods. _“Someone_ is up to _something,”_ he sighs. “We just don’t know who. And the longer the lull, the worse I expect the damage is going to be when whatever it is finally hits.”

“Who do you think it is?” 

“I can’t say for sure,” Batman says quietly. Tim can almost see his pinched brow behind the cowl, the way Batman’s eyes sometimes look as tired as a man twice his age at least. “Part of me hopes it’s Calendar Man, or the Riddler, maybe even Mad Hatter, but…”

 _“But?”_ Tim prompts, after Batman hasn’t resumed speaking for a few seconds, only stared in the direction of The Narrows with an unreadable expression on his face. 

“But with how many criminals must be involved, for how long a period of quiet this has been…” Batman continues on, in one of his rare moments of full honesty with a Robin, one of the few times he admits some of the toll this life takes on his soul. “I’m afraid it may be the Joker, or worse. I’m afraid we won’t catch the plan in time to stop it, whatever it is this time. And I’m terrified that it’s going to be the people of Gotham who will pay.”

He falls silent then, and Tim? 

Tim is not trained for this, not even a little, but at the same time, it’s what he’s trained for every day for over half a year now. It’s what he’s spent years of his life running around the city witnessing, wondering, thinking of. It’s what he spent more nights lying in bed awake turning over in his mind, month after month, all across the time he spent chasing Batman and Robin in silence and secrecy, feeding Gotham with warnings and evidence and extra minutes of warning that gave people a chance to get out of dodge if the action was moving too close. It’s what Tim’s wondered for years, ever since he was too small to see over the kitchen counter and watching Batman save the day on TV. 

Batman protects the city. He takes down criminals, comforts children, saves abandoned pets, always answers the call of the screaming city again and again and again, night after night, year after year, and Batman would give his _life_ to protect just one person if that was the only way. Everyone with two brain cells to rub together knows it. He carries the weight of every neighborhood and poor kid and overwhelmed officer on his shoulders without complaint and without thanks. Tim’s watched Batman drag himself to the Batmobile nearly crushed under the weight, and by injuries from hundreds of bad nights, and every single time Tim snuck home wondering _while Batman gives the city hope and faith, who gives that to Batman? Does Batman have any security left over for himself at the end of the day?_

Batman is only human. Little Tim figured _that_ one out ages ago, even if half the country seems to think he must be some kind of endurance meta. Batman must get tired, hurt, afraid like any other person. _When the Batman is sad and scared,_ Tim always wondered, _who does he have to catch his hand in the dark and promise him it’ll be alright? What’s the last line of defense between the monster fighter and the monsters?_

With Batman, it was always get _knocked down seven times, stand up eight,_ except he never seemed to run out of eights. But Tim wondered and worried and agonized for years over if Batman had a safety net for when things got too big for even a hero to hold.

 _Family,_ he knows now, and remembers warmly in this moment. Batman is brave because even before his sons, even before a Robin, he wasn’t alone. He has Alfred. And Alfred expects him to get up, brush himself off, every time, all the dirt and pain and blood and filth, and _come home_. He has Alfred, and he has his determination to keep as many people as possible from suffering the way he did as a child, and now, too, he has his Robins. Always, Batman will have a Robin. For now, it’s Tim, and Tim is--Tim is going to be what Bruce needs. What Batman needs. 

“Whatever happens, we’re going to face it when it does,” Robin says. “And we’re going to do what we can to fix it, and save who we can, and repair the damage. And it’s going to be okay.”

Batman looks over at him then.

 _“Every_ single time before now,” Robin goes on, voice growing stronger, “no matter how bad it’s gotten, Batman? No matter how hard you’ve been hit, no matter how big a plan someone has unleashed, no matter how difficult it’s been, you’ve always managed to stop it in the end. You’re going to do it again. And we’re here, B. We’re here too. You won’t do any of it alone. You’ve got help.”

“That’s true,” Batman says, fondly. He’s smiling slightly now. “I’ve got some excellent help.”

“And,” Robin says, sternly now. “If things get truly so bad that even we all, working together, can’t stop or fix it by ourselves? You’ve got the Justice League now. You’ve got Superman and Wonder Woman on your speed dial. You have friends, Batman, and if you need to, you can call them for help too. You might be carrying the weight of this whole godforsaken city-- _God_ only knows why any of us still love it, it’s tried to _kill us_ enough times--but you’re not carrying it alone. We’re here to prop your arms up when they get tired. Like--like Moses. We’ll be your Aron and Hur.”

“Someone has been doing their Torah studies, huh?” Batman says, and yep. Robin’s done it. He’s made Batman smile.

_Success._

Robin shrugs, pasting a grin on his face that’s only a little bit faked. “I never had a Bar Mitzvah, but I learned Hebrew on and off growing up. And I want…” he trails off for a moment, taking a breath and looking down at the city lights below before continuing, “...if Dad, um, does a Jewish funeral for her, I want to read one of the Torah passages. I want to chant it right.” 

Batman’s posture loosens a little, then, and he steps closer to Robin, crouching down to place one hand on his shoulder and grip it tight. 

“If you want help,” he says, and Tim hears the trail of pain and grief that never fully leaves the man, even after all these years, faintly echo in his voice, “I still have the notes from my Torah lessons. And I’m not the best in the world, but I can manage the cadence well enough to go up for Aliyah at synagogue a couple times a year.” He pauses, then says in a bit of a rush, “I mean--if you’d like an actual tutor, I know a couple great cantors, and a few rabbis who would be happy to help, I just figured maybe you would be more comfortable with--”

“It’s okay, B,” Robin says, placing his glove over Bruce’s on his shoulder and twisting to smile at him. “I get it. I appreciate the offer. And...yeah, I’d be a lot more comfortable with you instead of a stranger. I’ll come to you the next time I’m stuck.”

“Okay,” says Batman. He smiles again. “Okay.” 

“Okay,” Tim says, grinning. 

“Okay.”

“Okay!” and Tim pops up onto his feet, pulling out his grapple. “Let’s go before we get stuck in a loop. We’re not pulling a Fault In Our Stars tonight.”

“I have no idea what that means,” Bruce says, firing his grapple at the next building over and trusting Tim to follow. “but you’re right. Let’s go find some crime, hm?” 

And they’re off. 

* * *

They only stop one attempted carjacking before Flamebird jumps onto the comm line and says, tense and breathless, “You need to get over to the block by Ralph’s Pizza original location, _now._ C is out of her mind.” 

Batman rolls into a crouch on the next rooftop they hit, immediately leaping up to pivot on the ball of his foot and run for a different side of the roof, leaping off of it without hesitation and firing his grapple again mid-fall. Robin scrambles to keep up, slightly behind. Not for the first time, he curses his shorter legs and pushes for just a little more height, a little more speed on the arc of his swings. 

“What happened,” Batman demands. Terse and tight.

“I don’t _know,”_ Flamebird says, the very beginning of hysteria in his voice, and they can hear the clear sounds of a frantic dash across rough rooftop, then the clang of old fire escape metal that’s come a bit loose. “We were just swinging past one of the buildings in the public housing and suddenly she freaked out. I had to catch her out of a _fall,_ B, I don’t know what’s _wrong_. She started shrieking and threw me off the second we landed on a roof. I’m just trying to keep up. She’s running like the dogs of hell are after her and I can’t even get her to look at me.”

“You’re doing a good job,” Batman says, his tone leaving no room for doubt. “It’s all right, just keep eyes on her as much as you can and I’ll track your location. Hold on a little longer.”

“Roger that, Batman,” Flamebird says, and mutes his mic just as they can hear him start to call for Cass once more. 

“A,” Batman nearly growls, already punching the line to the cave active. “We have a situation. C is a flight risk, we’re cutting patrol short. I need you to direct the Batmobile to follow Robin and me as closely as possible. I don’t have time to punch in commands at the moment.”

“Consider it done,” says Agent A’s ever-composed voice. “Routing now. Alert me when you’re on your way back to the cave, if possible.”

“We will,” Batman promises, then cuts the line. 

“Batman,” Robin starts, on their private channel that doesn’t shut off once activated for the night. “What should I--”

“Stay back,” Batman says in a tone that allows no argument. “Do _not_ come close unless I tell you. C is very, very dangerous if compromised. We don’t know what happened, and I don’t want you getting hurt. If I’m incapacitated, let Flamebird jump in first; he’s got more sheer physics advantage over you if it comes down to brute force after all. Promise me, Robin.”

It _rankles,_ but Tim swallows down his protests and the need to protect, to make sure his father is _safe,_ to have Batman’s back, and says, “I promise.”

“Thank you,” says Batman, and then Tim is joining up to swing alongside Flamebird while Batman peels off and heads to the right.

“Flamebird,” Tim calls, as they sprint side by side across another apartment building, both breathing hard. “Are you okay?” 

Flamebird doesn’t look over, focused on the upcoming ledge. “I’ll be fine,” he says. “I’m just worried about C.” 

They dash, leap, and swing their way across another block and a half, always at least one building behind C, who’s moving like a prey animal--darting, _rushed,_ and it looks _so_ wrong on her, ordinarily always so fluid and in control, that Tim’s entire stomach clenches tight. 

She’s clearly not in her right mind. Something’s wrong. But even like this, even compromised and off her game, the boys don’t stand a chance of actually catching her, and Tim’s just about to give into despair when C suddenly slams face-first, full force, into a large, dark shadow made of solid flesh and blood, and is halted in her tracks. 

The scream she lets out is _heartrending_. 

Batman’s arms are like iron bands around her, and as they tumble to a stop one of of the lower building roofs, his grip is unyielding as she writhes like a snake in his hold. His mouth moves, saying something Tim is too distracted to parse through the blood rushing in his ears, and next to Tim Flamebird makes a noise of acknowledgement, apparently on a private comm line with Batman, and they swoop down to join the two already on the roof. “Sedative,” Batman commands tersely, the moment they’re within hearing range. 

Flamebird obediently pulls a pre-prepared injector out of one of his pouches and jabs it into C’s shoulder muscle as gently as possible. Tim winces in sympathy. 

She’s still thrashing, one of Bruce’s hands over her mouth to keep the noise down to a minimum while she shrieks bloody murder in his arms. The pain this scenario is causing him reads clearly on his face. Tim, after watching Bruce’s face as he approaches, to make sure it’s allowed, carefully swipes away the tears under C’s eyes, rolling out from under the mask through the small gaps. Flamebird’s face is wiped blank as he pins her legs to the roof’s rough surface, helping Batman keep her from hurting herself or anyone else.

Eventually, she begins to calm, struggling less and panting harshly as she finally begins to catch her breath. At some point, Tim sat himself down in a huddle a few feet away, present but apart, not sure what to do with himself but not in any way able to turn away. His arms are wrapped tightly around his knees as he watches his sister slowly settle down, relaxing by fractions into Batman’s arms. Her shaking doesn’t stop, though it does slow and loosen, and finally Batman looks up from her face to lock eyes with Flamebird, still steady and firm at C’s knees. 

“All right,” he says, low and calming. “I think you can let go now. I’m going to carry her to the Batmobile.” Flamebird rocks back onto his heels, standing up slowly as he shakes out his arms. 

“I’ll go back and ride the Ducati in from where we left it,” he says. He turns to go. 

“Flamebird,” Batman says, quietly. 

Flamebird twists back around halfway, meeting Batman’s eyes. 

_“Breathe,”_ Batman says. “Go slow. Take a few minutes if you need to. We’ll talk through it back home, okay? It’s all right to be upset.”

Flamebird swallows hard, and forces his shoulders to relax a bit as he nods once, more jerkily than usual. 

“Okay, B,” he gets out, and then with a wave over his shoulder he takes two steps and dives off the roof into the night. 

“Come on, Robin,” Batman says, turning to look at his youngest. “It’ll be all right now. She’s okay. Just leap after me.” 

Robin heaves himself onto his shaky legs and follows Batman wordlessly off the roof, down to the Batmobile below, and they don’t speak again until they’re back at the cave, crashing through the waterfall and finally reaching home.

* * *

“Master Bruce,” Alfred says as he meets them in the medical bay.

“Alfred,” Batman says, relief clear in his voice as he gently lays Cass down onto one of the gurneys, now devoid of her black mask. She blinks up at him hazily, and his thumb strokes feather-light across her cheekbone, stopping to rest on a near-invisible scar he knows came from a close call when she was a child. 

“Scarecrow?” Alfred asks, already gloved up and starting to take Cass’s vitals. Tim steps up to the nearby counter and finishes using one of their homemade wipes to carefully peel off his mask. He listens in with single-minded focus as he scrubs his hands in soap and antiseptic on autopilot, ready to assist if necessary. 

“No,” Bruce says tiredly, pushing his cowl off his face and letting it fall down his back. “Not fear gas. Jason says they were swinging in midair when it happened. She must have seen something.”

Alfred looks up with a frown from where he’s taping an oxygen and pulse sensor onto Cass’s pointer finger. The screen lights up next to the gurney, her oxygen level and heart rate still clearly in the safe range, to everyone’s relief. 

“What could have frightened her so badly in the middle of the city?” Alfred asks, partly rhetorical. 

“That’s what I hope we find out,” says Bruce, and he finally steps away from the bed to join Tim where he’s standing frozen at the counter. “Tim,” Bruce murmurs. “Tim. Sweetheart. Are you okay?”

Tim blinks and turns, then, looking up at Bruce, a slight furrow between his brows. Bruce takes Tim’s face in his hands and says again “Tim. Hey.”

“I’m,” Tim says carefully, then clears his throat to get the croak out of his voice. “Fine,” he finishes. Bruce raises one eyebrow, and Tim’s gaze darts away, drifting around for a moment till it lands on Cass, awake but clearly sedated, looking worn out and still with something haunted in her face. 

“I’m...as fine as anyone would be, after that,” he amends, trying for some honesty, and Bruce takes a moment to pull him into a large, grounding hug. 

When Bruce lets go, it’s only enough to hold Tim at arm’s length with his hands on Tim’s shoulders. He leans down slightly, making sure to keep his eyes locked on Tim’s.

“Can you go get the dogs?” he asks. “All three. We need them tonight.”

Tim straightens slightly, nods. “I’ll bring them. I’ll be fast.” 

“I know you will,” Bruce says, giving him a small smile. “Maybe grab a few dog treats too, from one of the pouches by the door.”

“Okay,” Tim says. And he knows what Bruce is doing, he does, but it _works._ It works on Tim every single time. He guesses he can’t really complain that much about being manipulated into feeling better by being made to feel like he’s useful and given something else to focus on. 

He takes the stairs up to the manor, two at a time, and gets the dogs. 

* * *

Later, after Jason has safely made it home, and Cass is off the monitor and coming back to herself, and Tim’s perched on a folded quilt with his hands buried in Nova’s fur with the dog stretched out sleepily across his lap, Bruce sits quietly next to the gurney as Cass pushes herself up and off onto feet only slightly less graceful than usual, despite the lingering effects of the benzodiazepine they know she has to be feeling. 

Cass is turned away, staring at a row of lockers, or perhaps not seeing anything at all. They can all see her breathing, see the way her shoulders rise and fall even as she forces her hands to uncurl by her sides. She takes a few steps towards one of the training areas.

“Cass,” Bruce says, evenly. He doesn’t make any motion to move. 

_“No,”_ Cass hisses with enormous effort, and she makes as if to whip around, before aborting mid-motion. She walks several more feet before Bruce speaks again and she jerks to a stop. 

“Cass,” he says, same tone as before. 

She doesn’t look at him. Bruce stands up slowly, approaching her at a measured pace. He keeps his body open, but still wary and ready to move fast if it becomes necessary. 

Cass can read him clearly, read them all, not a threat. Tim can see plain as day that she’s not intimidated by anyone in this cave. But _something_ has certainly got her on edge. They need to know what. 

_Or,_ Tim thinks with a sinking feeling in his chest, _who._

Brue steps up to Cass’s side, turning to face her at almost a precisely ninety-degree angle. Cass closes her eyes and doesn’t move. Jason, off to the side nearTim, has tense as a rope about to snap as he leans against a workbench, and Peanut starts nosing hard at his knee for several seconds, more and more insistently, until Jason finally looks down and sighs. Tim watches with a faint smile as Jason slides down the workbench’s smooth side until he’s on Peanut’s level, finally in the right position for Peanut to dutifully bowl him over and lie across him applying pressure. He follows this up by licking Jason’s face at a steady pace as well, for added distraction, and Tim can hear Jason’s faint splutter.

Alfred holds Ace’s collar gently, locked onto Bruce and Cass’s standoff with the focus of a hunting hawk. When Cass is ready, Ace will come. But they can’t risk Ace being hurt if Cass loses control. 

“You are safe,” Bruce says and signs, emphasizing the _safe_ with an extra-sharp twist of his wrists as he moves them apart, and his expression is so earnest it almost hurts to look at. 

Cass shakes her head, still keeping her eyes closed. _Not,_ she snaps, thumbing her chin with sharp movement, almost bruising. 

Bruce doesn’t back down.

“Cass,” he insists, softly. The only other sound is the faint echo of rushing water from somewhere deep in the cave network, no Batcomputer beeps, no noises of training. No one moves. “Look at me, princess.” 

The nickname seems to change something for Cass, pull her a little more into the present, into the cave, and there’s a brief flash of something hesitant in her body before she’s rigid again and opening her eyes to finally look over at Bruce. 

He stands carefully just outside of her personal bubble, and looks her in the eye as he signs _safe here you,_ with determination in every movement and the stance of his body. 

_“Always,”_ he adds, his finger moving in sharp circles in the air, a punctuation in itself. “As long as I am here.”

Cass looks away for a few seconds before she turns back to Bruce, and this time her feet shift to aim back at his, her shoulders opening up slightly as she finally enters the conversation. 

Tim breathes out a barely-audible sigh of relief, and exchanges a quick glance with Jason where his older brother is still pinned to the floor. 

_Not,_ she signs again, but this time it’s just tired. Every inch of her seems to droop. _Place no,_ and her fingers snap with finality. No place. Nowhere. 

“Here,” Bruce says, jabbing one finger at the floor, before using the real sign. “Safe here.” 

Cass looks down, but doesn’t protest again. 

“Princess,” Bruce says again, and Cass looks up, pain and fear and something happy all warring for dominance across her face. “What did you see?”

It’s as if Bruce had fired a gun by her head. Cass explodes into movement, her face turning into a crashing thunderstorm as she jerks away and sprints for the practice dummies. Bruce jogs after, and the others follow, Tim keeping one hand in Nova’s fur and the other grasping one of his hoodie strings, twisting and untwisting, wrapping it around his finger as many times as possible before letting it fall and starting all over again. 

Cass tears through one dummy, a flurry of deadly jabs and kicks and sharp-fingered _yanks_ until she demolishes it finally by snapping its neck. She launches at the next as Bruce steps up to join her on the mats, still careful to maintain the space between them, but making sure to stay in her peripheral vision. 

Cass has tears in her eyes, Tim realizes suddenly. Her foot snaps up and slams into the dummy’s shoulder, whipping it around and to the side, and then one of her hands lashes out in a precision strike and the heel of her palm catches the chin of the dummy so hard its head snaps off and flies just past Bruce’s head. 

He doesn’t flinch. 

“Show me,” Bruce says, not a command, but not a suggestion. An offer. A way. “Show me who, princess. Can you do that?”

Cass heaves for air for a few seconds, hands not drifting down from their ready position. Then she turns to a third dummy, and this time it’s different. 

Her strikes land, but they’re not as violent as before, not as emotional. Cass’s eyes are hard as she strikes at joints, soft spots, an ear. She spins away and pauses, scowling at the dummy. Jumps back in, lashes a few more spots, dances away. Her face twists into a snarl, and one hand forms into the shape of a gun, just like children make when they’re pretending to play cops and robbers, just like Tim remembers from elementary school recess, countless hours spent tumbling in and out and over the geometric climbing dome with classmates. 

Her left hand sweeps up to support the right, arms rigid and locked. No kickback, Tim thinks, remembering the lessons Bruce gave him. 

Her hands aim at the dummy, and she steps towards it, one foot at a time, until her hands are inches away from its surface, and Bruce is staring with pain and empathy and too much understanding in the tightness of his eyes. 

She stares down her arm at the spot in the front of the dummy’s shoulder, just below where the clavicle would be, and it’s the mirror image of where Cass had looked down at old scars in this very cave and said in words clearly not her own, _Two. For flinching._

“David Cain,” Bruce says, voice hard and more Batman than Bruce. “You’re sure?”

Cass’s hands shake, for the first time since they’ve known her. 

“I’m so sorry, Cassie,” Bruce murmurs, softening his voice, and he steps closer, reaches out till his hands hover over her back and hands. “He’s not going to get you again. I swear that. I am never going to let him hurt you again.” 

A tear rolls down Cass’s cheek, and Bruce’s hand finally rests on her back, lightly, and his other gently catches her arms and guides them down, away from the practice dummy in front of her. Cass’s breath hitches, once, twice, and then she turns on her heel and slams directly into Bruce’s chest. He staggers once before getting his feet under him, and his arms come to wrap around her as he sways them back and forth slightly, shushing wordlessly as Cass shakes in his hug. She doesn’t make a sound. 

Tim is still staring, frozen, dumbfounded, when Jason puts his arm around Tim and draws him back, and Alfred walks Ace over to where Bruce is moving to slowly sit Cass and himself down on the mats. 

“Come on,” Jason says quietly. “Let’s give her some space. We’ll go make some hot chocolate the way she likes it. And, uh, maybe call Dick. He should know.” 

“But…” Tim starts, softly. He looks back over his shoulder, resisting Jason’s pull for a moment as he watches his foster father and his sister, his sister who’s in pain, who needs them, and--”

“Sometimes,” Jason says gently, “We just need Bruce. Remember? Sometimes you just need your dad to hold you. Cass doesn’t need to feel crowded right now. She’ll need you later, I promise. Just like how sometimes you don’t want me or Dick to be around while you’re really upset, but we're great for cuddle piles afterwards once you've calmed down.”

Tim nods slowly. _That makes sense._ Yeah, he remembers. 

“Okay,” he says. “Right. Let’s go get the hot chocolate. And maybe, uh, one of the weighted blankets? And set up a movie?” Tim looks at Jason hesitantly. 

“Yeah,” Jason says, with a broad smile. “Good plan. We’ll do that one Cass liked with the ballerinas--what was it, _Dancing Shoes_ or something? And at least that way she won’t go straight to bed upset if she’s awake after Bruce calms her down.”

“And if Dick shows up tonight after we call,” Tim adds as they and their dogs start up the steps to the study. “He can enjoy criticizing all the actors’ terrible forms while they stretch.” 

“Two birds with one stone. Dickiebird’s easily pleased,” Jason agrees, and they head the rest of the way upstairs. 

* * *

“Bruce,” Tim whispers. He’s tucked under the man’s left arm, wedged between his warm side and the puffy arm of the couch. 

“Hm?” Bruce asks softly, looking over and down at Tim with a small smile. His right hand doesn’t stop stroking softly through Cass’s hair where it rests against his other side, so far down him that her head at this point is nearly in his lap. 

“If Cass’s dad is back,” Tim says, trying _so_ hard not to wake up Jason, who’s only just dozed off on Cass’s other side. “What are we going to do? Is he going to try to steal her?”

“I don’t know what he wants,” Bruce murmurs, and he glances down at Cass for a moment before turning back to Tim. “But we’re going to find out, and we’re going to deal with it as a family. Cass has been running away from him for years, and I promise I’m not letting him take her back now. No matter what it takes, we’ll take care of it and keep Cass safe.” Bruce grins at Tim then, his whole demeanor lifting suddenly. “And if it’s too big for just us to manage while keeping Cass safe at the same time,” he adds, “then like someone very wise once told me--I can call for help. I have _friends_.”

Tim tries to muffle the laugh that rips out of him, and a very drowsy Dick pops his head up to glance over from the other side of the couch for a few seconds before dropping back out of sight and beginning to snore softly. 

“Okay, Bruce,” Tim says, burrowing in a little closer while Bruce rubs a thumb up and down Tim’s arm. “I trust you. We’re gonna be okay, aren’t we? In the end? Like. Not today. And maybe not this year, I guess, but...w’re gonna be okay one day, right? As long as we stick together?”

“And don’t ever give up,” Bruce says. “Yeah, Timmy. We’re _all_ going to be okay. And _more_ than okay, if you can believe it. One day, you’re going to look back at everything you’ve been through and overcome, and you’re going to realize that after all that, you’re okay, and you’re thriving, and you’re _happy_. Not just in the moment, but always--even when you’re sad, or hurt, you still feel content deep down. And _that,”_ Bruce says, dropping a long kiss to the top of Tim’s messy hair, “is all that I want for you kids. We’re going to get you there, sweetheart. One day at a time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take care of yourselves! Sleep, drink, eat, take your meds, don't forget your tea/coffee or laundry! As always, you can find me over on tumblr as @goldkirk. I hope you have a lovely day/night!!!


	12. I had to learn to be the hero, I started over here from zero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Babs is back, Tim has a Moment on the way to his birthday hike, Cass doesn't know yet that cats don't usually like hiking, bros are good bros, and STEPH IS A BADASS and I love her can you tell?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy the chapter!!!!
> 
>  **Content Warning:** Vomiting in the first scene. Self harm/cutting mentions, non-graphic description but mentions of cuts and the treatment of them. Needles/vaccine/injection mention in the paragraph where Steph hums along to a Lizzo song, but it's only a mention, no description.
> 
> Chapter title is from "Lions Inside" by Valley of Wolves which is just. An OUTSTANDING Batfam song and applies really well to Steph especially in a lot of ways.

Barbara Gordon comes home to Gotham the next day, tossing the mantle of Oracle aside once more to be Batgirl again for what remains of July and August before she goes back to school.

“I am,” she groans, leaning over to drop her head onto Dick’s shoulder across the gap as she settles into a middle seat of Bruce’s minivan, “so tired. And _never_ teaching Comp Sci 101 as a summer course _again_. I don’t care how much Dr. Holland begs. I don’t care how many free lunches they give me. It’s bad enough as a 16-week course. I don’t ever want to teach an 8-week night class again for as long as I live. Being a TA doesn’t pay enough to make that hell worth it.”

“But you did it,” Dick says, dropping a light kiss on her wild hair. 

“I did,” Babs concedes. “And I did a damn good job of it, whatever Dean McGrouchyPants has to say about my methods. I dragged those kids through kicking and screaming, but they can write code better than most of the junior class at this point. Which benefits _me_ in the long run, since I’m going to be the department’s indentured servant and overflow grader for probably the next million years, based on how slowly my thesis work is going.”

“That’s our girl,” Bruce says proudly, as he adjusts the rear-view mirror slightly so he can still see all the kids. “Everybody buckled?”

“Yes,” Tim choruses along with the others. He’s trying hard not to constantly fidget in his seat from excitement. 

Jason may love him, but they’re both crammed in the backseat with Cass, and Nova and Peanut are taking up most of the floor area, so space is at a premium and Tim isn’t about to push the edges of his brother’s patience. Even the ever-calm Ace is starting to look a little strained where he lies wedged between the two middle seats. 

“Bruce,” Jason says, echoing Tim’s thoughts. “No offense? But I think you might need to get a bigger minivan. Like, soon.”

“Well,” Bruce says slowly as he pulls away from the curb. “You’re going off to college, aren’t you, all grown up and everything? It’s not like you’re going to need a seat for much longer. Wave to Gordon, kids.”

Tim’s heart does a strange little flip for a moment. They all wave to the Commissioner through the windows as he disappears behind them, and the van makes its turn onto the freeway. 

_“B,”_ Jason whines. “I’m not leaving forever! And I’ll be home during breaks. You can’t just write me out of this family. I have _rights.”_

Tim smiles at the exchange, but grips his camera case a bit more tightly than necessary. Cass looks down at his hands and presses her shoulder into his, and he doesn’t know what she’s trying to say, exactly. But it sort of helps. He can hear his mother’s voice in his head, reprimanding him on the first day of kindergarten that _you’re a big boy now, Tim, you can take the bus and you’ll be just fine. There’s nothing to cry about, silly, you’re just growing up. You’ll be fine. Daddy and I have to leave. Come on, you have to let go, you can’t ride with us, we’re going to the airport. You have your own life here, now, and you’re a big boy. You get to ride the bus with Sonia._

Janet dropping a warm kiss on his forehead as she squeezes him in a long, tight hug, then patting him firmly, encouragingly, on the back. _Go on now._ The weight of his too-long Batman backpack, barely filled up with just a notebook, crayons, and his lunchbox, bumping gently into the backs of his knees with every step Tim takes towards the nanny of that school year. Reaching up and taking her hand while all he wants is to hold his parents. He doesn’t want to be a big boy. He’s tired of it, he wants to be little again, and have his mom and dad home. When he looks back, his parents are already in the car, shutting the doors. And that’s it.

He shakes his head a few times, scratching one nail back and forth on the woven material of his camera strap over and over, and focuses on the feel of that in order to keep the memory from drowning him. He tunes back into the conversation, ignoring the way Cass is still watching him through the curtain of her dark hair that’s falling out from where she tucks it behind her ear. 

“Of course I can’t write you out of the family,” Bruce says calmly. “You’re my _son._ You can’t get out of this if you try. I’m not letting you go.”

“Lord knows that’s true,” Alfred adds from the passenger seat while he furiously knits away at either a very small sweater or a very large scarf. “I thought I’d serve the Wayne family for a few years while I got back on my feet, and now here I am with a son, four grandchildren, and more animals than I can shake a stick at. And I’ve learned to make a rather mean peach cobbler, if I do say so myself. I’ve been _domesticated.”_

“Alfred,” Bruce chuckles. “You’re the most domesticated human being I’ve ever met.”

“Pretty sure Bruce has never seen Alfred in one of his stress-cleaning sessions,” Jason mutters, only just loud enough for Cass and Tim to hear. “Seeing as he’s, you know, usually the cause of them.”

Alfred sniffs. “You’ve only known me since I moved to America, my boy. You know the stories I’ve told you about my days in Her Majesty’s service. I have not made them a secret to you.”

“No,” says Bruce. “But imagining you as a—a _spy?_ And an actor? I can see it, but it’s—you’re _Alfred_ . I can hardly imagine this life without you in it as the family rock. I don’t think I really _want_ to.”

“My _dear_ boy,” Alfred says. “You galavant around our city in an animal costume every night and adopt every orphan who drops unceremoniously into your lap, all while running the company you swore as a teenage boy you hated and would _never_ take on.”

Bruce grumbles back at him, shoulders hunching a bit. “Nineteen years ago I was a card-carrying punk rock kid about to embark on a literal world tour of the underworld, trying to stumble upon my own karate kid moment. Now I’m a respectable CEO with a healthy appreciation for masala chai. I have an interview with _Esquire_ next month about what life is like as the internet’s favorite ‘DILF’ father, which I deeply wish I didn’t understand. _People change.”_

Dick makes a sort of choking noise somewhere in the back of his throat, while Babs claps a hand over her mouth and Jason’s face screws up into something very red and _deeply_ pained. Tim scrabbles to hold onto the thread of the conversation, holds onto it like a lifeline, and tries to keep his focus on what they’re heading out to do. 

_Come on, Tim, it’s fine,_ He tells himself. _Everything is fine. You’re finally going to the state park, you idiot, get it together! Think about how many photos you’re gonna get to take. And all the candid shots you’re going to get. Maybe even one of Cass smelling some bright flowers against her dark hair in the sunlight or something. Or Bruce watching Dick do flips off a tree. It’s going to be great. Everything’s fine._ Nova noses hard at his knee, collar jingling faintly, and Tim absentmindedly reaches down to scratch behind her ear. 

“Good girl,” he murmurs. 

Alfred waves one hand, knitting needle drifting dangerously close to Bruce’s ear but never quite touching. “All I am trying to say is that people would hardly recognize _your_ younger self either even if he walked beside you on the street. I don’t believe you have a leg to stand on, here.”

“Is this Alfred’s way of saying ‘Pot, kettle?’” Dick asks. 

“I believe it is,” Bruce says. “All right, Alfie. Point taken. But I mean it, you know. I don’t know where I—where any of us would be without you here. I couldn’t have asked for a better father all these years.”

 _“Well,”_ Alfred says, then, his fingers stumbling to a halt with yarn still half-wrapped around the needles, and everyone in the van has been trained by the Bat. Except for the Bat, of course, who was trained, in all the ways that matter, by his Da. They all hear the hidden dampness in his tone, however well he manages to stamp it down. 

“All right,” Bruce says with a grin. “I’ll lay off on the feelings talk for now. I think that must fill our annual quota, don’t you?”

“Quite so, Master Bruce,” Alfred replies, and goes back to his knitting. He stops only once to blow his nose delicately with the ever-present handkerchief from his breast pocket before getting back to it with a vengeance. 

Cass raises her hand, and Bruce catches it in the mirror. 

“Yes, Cass? What is it?”

Cass points with one hand at Tim beside her, and Bruce’s brows furrow as his gaze darts over. Tim ducks his head, trying to avoid eye contact, but now Jason is eyeing him too, and there’s not much Tim can do about it short of unbuckling and scrambling over the seat back to hide in the back of the minivan. And he doesn’t particularly want to get the safety lecture from Bruce, Alfred, _and_ Dick today. 

“Tim?” Bruce asks, and Dick cranes his neck around to peer into the backseat as well. “You okay?”

“Yeah, of course!” Tim says quickly. 

But Jason is looking at him and frowning. “B,” he says, low, warning. 

Tim shoots Jason a glare, then turns to meet Bruce’s eyes in the rearview mirror as they flick between Tim and the road every couple seconds. Tim straightens, leaning away from Cass and opens his mouth. “I’m _fi—”_ he starts to bite out, then loses his voice in the middle of the sentence. His eyes widen and his hand shoots up to cover his mouth on pure instinct. 

“B!” snaps Jason, and Bruce is already pulling off to the shoulder of the road. 

“I think I’m gonna throw up,” Tim says suddenly, confused and more than a little bewildered, as he fights through the rolling nausea, and then someone’s got his buckle popped open and Dick’s hands are leading him firmly out of the back and through the sliding side door. Tim would have dropped to his knees hard at the edge of the drainage ditch if Bruce hadn’t caught him and eased him down with the same careful movement that accompanies everything he did, as Batman _and_ as their dad. 

“It’s all right,” Bruce says gently. “Deep breaths.”

Tim tries, he breathes and breathes and breathes some more as his stomach clenches and flips, and then finally his airway closes off in one final choke and he’s retching up the remains of his breakfast into a thistle bush while Bruce holds him up through it all. 

Tim falls back against Bruce’s chest after one final heave, panting a little, and one of Bruce’s hands moves up to wipe at his sweaty forehead with a wet wipe someone must have dug out of the console.

 _"_ _Sorry,”_ Tim chokes out. He kind of wants to cry, and kind of wants to vanish into the dirt and never come out again. 

“Shhhh,” says Bruce. His hand on Tim’s forehead pulls Tim to lay his head back further onto Bruce’s shoulder, and Tim squeezes his eyes shut while he tries to get control back over his rebelling body. 

“Didn’t realize—” he starts.

“Tim.” Bruce cuts him off, thumb brushing across his temple. His arms don’t loosen, and Tim can’t help feeling secure even while he’s kind of falling apart. “It’s okay. No one is upset with you. I promise, sweetheart.”

Tim swallows. But I made a mess, he thinks. I interrupted the drive. If I could have just—

“Hey,” comes Jason’s voice, and there are knuckles rapping twice on his cheekbone. “What did Bruce-man just say, huh? No one’s mad. I can hear you yelling at yourself from here. Your brain is awfully loud.” 

“Buzz off, momma bird,” Tim mumbles, without any real heat to it. He blinks his eyes open to see Jason’s grin. 

“Nah,” Jason says. “Think I’ll stay here instead. I’ve put a lotta investment into you. I don’t feel like leaving you on the side of the highway to blame yourself for things that aren’t a problem just because you had to puke up some pancakes.”

“Don’t know what happened,” Tim says, sounding about as miserable as he feels. Bruce hands him a fresh wet wipe, and it feels like heaven as he wipes down his neck and mouth himself before passing it back to be thrown in the van’s trash bag. “I was fine.” 

Cass hops through the side door, then, gently cradling her now-much-bigger kitten in its new little harness, and raises one eyebrow. _Not,_ she thumbs against her chin. 

Tim’s too... _something,_ whatever, who knows, to try to figure out what she means. 

Cass huffs, and gestures furiously at Jason, who blinks and tries to expand on what he figures she means. 

“Uh,” Jason says. “You weren’t fine?” Cass nods. “But...you didn’t realize. Uh.” He frowns in concentration as Cass signs at him rapidfire, and Tim just keeps his eyes drifting between the two of them while he quietly tries to push his way off of Bruce and Bruce firmly holds him right where he’s at. Tim’s thoroughly embarrassed at this point and just wants to put the whole thing behind him. 

Jason turns to look at Tim fully again. “She’s right. I noticed too. You looked…” he searches for the right word. “Upset? Pale?”

“Carsick?” Dick offers. 

Tim shakes his head. “Don’t get carsick.”

“Scrambled eggs,” Bruce says, then. Tim frowns. He didn’t eat any eggs this morning. Some kind of understanding dawns on Jason’s face, though. 

“Oh,” says Jason. “Tim. Timmers. Which part was it, when we were all talking? What upset you?”

“What? I don’t know,” Tim grumbles. “I don’t think...”

“I know I don’t know the whole Tim situation quite as well as you all do,” interrupts Babs. “But...could it have been when Bruce was like ‘guess you won’t need to ride with us anymore, huh, since you’re going off to college and a big boy now’ and Jason joked about being written out of the family, or whatever?”

Tim squeezes his eyes shut as the memory of his first day of kindergarten tries to slam back into the forefront of his mind, just for a moment, and he forces his breathing to stay even. But he can’t hide the way his muscles tensed for just a second from Bruce. Not when they’re in such close contact. 

_L_ _eaving,_ Cass confirms above his head. Jason looks a little stricken. 

“It’s not your fault, Jason,” Bruce says immediately. “Stop that.”

“But—”

“No,” Bruce says firmly, chest rumbling against Tim’s back. “These things happen. You know it’s not your fault any more than it was mine the other day when I accidentally triggered you during movie night, or today when I joked about you being too grown-up to ride in the van anymore.”

Jason sighs. “Okay, B.” He squats down and brushes some of Tim’s flyaways back from his face, and Tim grins for a second. “Sorry, Tim. At least we know another thing to avoid now.”

“No,” says Tim. He shakes his head. “To work on.” 

“You don’t have to work to get rid of every single trigger in like, two years,” Jason huffs. “Damn, Timmy. Give yourself a break. You can’t rationalize your way through everything, no matter how stubborn you are.”

“That,” Bruce says lightly, “I can confirm. You feel like getting up?”

Tim nods, and allows Bruce to haul him to his feet, keeping one of his hands wrapped around Bruce’s forearm until he’s sure he’s not going to suddenly throw up again or anything. 

“Sorry,” he says again. “I don’t—I don’t think that normally would have bothered me so much. I think it was just today. I don’t know.”

“It’s okay,” Bruce reassures him. 

“No one cares, Tim,” Jason says. “We’ve all puked on the side of the road once or twice, in or out of costume. No shame in it.” 

Tim rolls his eyes. 

“Would you like some water?” Alfred asks, then, window rolled down and Tim’s water bottle in his hand. 

“Yes, please,” Tim says gratefully, and chases the last of the bad taste out of his mouth as he rinses and spits once into the thistles before chugging half the bottle in one go. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Dick asks gently, as Tim is following Jason and Cass back up into the backseat. 

“Absolutely not,” Tim says with an impressive amount of cheer, and although Dick exchanges an unreadable glance with Bruce, who’s about to shut the door behind them, he doesn’t push. Tim’s grateful. He makes sure to give Nova some extra rubs as he settles back into the seat, in a sort of apology for not realizing earlier what she was trying to tell him. She seems satisfied, at least, and settles back down across his boots without complaint. He’s grateful for the weight. It helps keep him here and now, in the van with his family, fifteen years old, having a belated birthday and not a little kid anymore. 

But after a few more minutes of driving, the old truth settles in about how much easier it is to talk about things in a moving vehicle, and Tim finds himself opening his mouth against his own better judgement. 

“I was…” he tries. Pauses. Everyone’s attention snaps to him, even if they’re kind enough not to turn around in their seats. He can tell. “Uh. I remembered my first day of kindergarten. Mom and dad left for Egypt, or something, and I wanted to ride with them. But Mom said I was, like, a big kid now, and I could take the bus with my nanny, and…” he trails off, shrugs a little helplessly. “I dunno. I’m not sure why it was suddenly such a big deal.”

“When you’re small,” Bruce says, catching Tim’s eye in the mirror for a moment before looking back at the road as he turns smoothly onto the exit ramp, “feelings are big. Just because older you can look at the situation and say that it wasn’t a big deal, since everything was fine and you were safe, it doesn’t mean the little you wasn’t afraid and upset. When you’re small, every bad thing is literally the worst thing that’s ever happened to you. Dropping your ice cream can feel like the end of the world when you were excited about getting it all day and then it suddenly falls and you can’t have it anymore.”

That makes sense, Tim admits, but. Still.

“So,” Bruce goes on, and the van starts shaking slightly as it hits gravel instead of asphalt. “Put yourself in little you’s shoes, hm? He was starting kindergarten. That’s a big deal, and a big change. It’s a new school, and lots of unfamiliar kids and grown-ups, right? And all little kids want some comfort when they’re nervous, so usually parents come with them to the first day of school so everyone’s nerves are a little soothed. You just wanted your mom and dad. You didn’t want to be alone on your first day.”

“But I had the nanny,” Tim points out. “I liked Sonia.”

“Sure,” Dick says. “But she wasn’t your parents. And were you scared?”

Tim thinks back, tries to really put himself in the moment from his younger self’s eyes this time, but keep it controlled. He feels Cass pulling his hands over to gently rest on Teacup’s soft little fur, and shoots her a quick smile as his fingers start to rub lightly. 

And, yeah. Tim.

Tim was definitely scared. He’d never gone to preschool. His parents had just hired a Montessori tutor, and pushed him as hard as they could. Tim was smart. He liked the challenge. But he hadn’t really been around many kids before, and school was going to have a lot. And new teachers. And it was in a building he’d never seen before, because his parents had a business event the day they were supposed to go to the open house, and his nanny had a cold. So. Tim was definitely nervous. He didn’t feel big at all back then. He felt really small, and he wanted someone to _hold_ him, not just his hand, and--

“Tim,” Jason says. Tim blinks a few times, and looks over. Jason reaches out a hand and his fingers are suddenly brushing across Tim’s cheek. 

“What?” Tim asks. 

“You’re crying, bud,” Jason says softly. 

“Oh,” Tim says, surprised. He reaches up, letting go of Teacup, and feels his eyes. Sure enough, they’re damp. “Huh.”

Bruce has put the car in park along the side of the state park’s gravel lot sometime in the past minute or so, and he turns around in his seat now, keys in hand, and locks eyes with Tim. “You think you’re okay to head out right now?” he asks, not the slightest bit of accusation or disappointment in his voice. Tim still feels braced for it anyway. 

"I think so,” Tim answers. He unbuckles, and tugs Nova’s collar gently as he calls _up._

“Because we can wait a little while if that would help,” Bruce says. “Or the others can go on ahead, and you and I can just catch up.”

“No, I’m okay,” Tim says. And he’s pretty sure he means it. 

“Nature is always an excellent remedy for the soul,” Alfred says, as they all pile out through the various doors. “I dare say you’ll feel better before we even make it to the top of the ridge.”

“Come on, Dickiebird,” Jason says, clipping Peanut’s hands-free leash to his belt. Dick takes Ace’s lead and wraps it around his wrist a few times. “Race.”

Dick sighs, but doesn’t actually sound all that put out. “How far?”

“Just the trailhead,” Jason says. “Bet I beat you by two strides.”

“Bet you a Snickers you don’t,” Dick snorts. 

“Babs!” Jason calls over to where Babs has already walked over to read some of the plaques by the rain garden. “Start us.”

“Three,” she yells back. “Two...one...one and a _half.”_

“Babs,” Jason groans. 

“GO!” she yells, and the boys are off. 

Tim find himself grinning as he slips Nova’s over-the-shoulder leash over his head and adjusts it to fit how he wants. He straightens his camera case around his neck, takes the offered backpack from Alfred that contains his water bottles and snacks, and pulls his camera out just in time to snap a photo of Teacup’s reaction as Cass sets him down on the faint dirt trail for the first time. 

“Good catch,” Bruce says over Tim’s shoulder, as they watch Cass begin attempting to lead her wayward little cat down the walking path instead of off towards the butterfly bushes. She isn’t having all that much success, but Alfred is already on it, sweeping in to take charge. 

“I can’t believe she decided to bring Teacup on a hike,” Tim laughs a little. Bruce’s free hand lands on the center of his back, and Tim doesn’t flinch away as he’s steered toward the trailhead where Jason and Dick are already bickering good-naturedly over who actually out-touched the other, and Babs is staring up at the sky as if a cloud will give her guidance over how to wrangle the two of them. Tim can almost imagine from here her lips soundlessly mouthing out _Lord give me patience to not stab them with a Batarang before lunch._

“As long as I’m not the one carrying the cat for five and a half miles,” Bruce says, watching Cass fondly, “I don’t particularly care. I learned a long time ago to pick my battles, and this isn’t a hill I plan to die on.”

“Yeah,” Tim snorts. “That’s fair.”

“Are you really okay?” Bruce asks quietly. 

“I’m okay,” Tim confirms. “It was just...a weird moment. I’m okay now. And thanks, for that in the car. I didn’t really think about that before.”

“It’s what I’m here for,” Bruce says. “If you do want to talk about it later, or if you need a break, tell me or Alfred, all right? This is your day. You should be happy and comfortable, not stressed.”

“Thanks, Bruce.” Tim twists around and hugs Bruce for a few seconds as they stop in the middle of the narrow dirt path. “I love you a lot.”

Bruce smiles and hugs Tim back tightly for a moment. “I love you too a lot,” he says. Tim pulls away, and Bruce slings his arm back around Tim’s shoulders as they start to walk. “Come on. There’s a particularly good photo spot about a mile and a half up the trail I think you’ll like. And if we make good time, we can picnic in the big meadow for lunch and let the dogs run around for a while.”

“TIM,” comes the holler from over by the trail. Tim squints over, hand raised to shield his eyes from the sun. 

“WHAT?” he yells back, ignoring Bruce’s wince. 

“SUNSCREEN,” Jason hollers, and the next thing Tim knows, there’s a bottle flying at his face in a frankly beautiful overhand throw. Jason’s old baseball coach must be proud.

Bruce’s hand catches it before Tim can get his own up high enough, and he passes it off to Tim with a fond grin. 

“Still mother henning you, huh?” Bruce asks, as Tim pops the cap open and starts to squirt out sunscreen lotion with a sigh. 

“So much,” Tim says. He smears some of the sunscreen on his face and neck, then sticks his white-covered hand in the air as they get closer to the others, and calls out, “Happy, Momma Bird?”

“Ecstatic,” Jason shouts back dryly. “I’ll positively die of joy if you actually smear it everywhere it’s supposed to go, too, instead of forgetting your ears and back again like last time.” 

“You’re a pain in my butt,” Tim grumbles under his breath, and Bruce barely holds in his laugh. Tim feels Bruce’s arm shake slightly where it rests across his shoulders. 

“What was that?” Jason asks, grinning. 

“I said, you’re a blessing in my life and I’m lucky to have you watching out for my pale Irish-Japanese butt,” Tim says. 

“Damn straight,” says Jason, and then he reaches out and snatches the bottle from Tim’s hand. “Aw, nuts, Timmy. You already missed half your forehead, dummy. Just—let me do it, okay?”

“Okay, Jason,” Tim says, and lets his older brother do what he needs to do to feel better after the whole car thing. 

Nothing gets Jason back on an even keel faster than being needed by Tim, and no one knows how to push Jason’s buttons effectively better than Tim. They’ve turned it into a dance, of sorts, and it works out. 

Jason gets a little bit in Tim’s eye. But they’re okay. He’s still got the other one to look out of while taking photos, and it’s worth it to see Jason fully relaxed again. _Besides,_ Tim thinks cheerfully. _Now we can both gang up on Cass together._ She’s as pale as Tim is, and probably doesn’t even know what sunscreen is _for_. 

She’s got no idea what’s gonna hit her. 

* * *

Steph scrubs a hand across her forehead, trying to wipe away some of the sweat before it gets into her eye, but really only manages to smear some flour across her skin. She sighs and reaches for the dirty kitchen towel. It doesn’t look like it’s going to do any better a job, really, with how dirty its gotten. Her mom hasn’t done the laundry in...a while. And Steph’s been more focused on making sure they all have clean underwear, not on getting the bedding and towels washed. So. 

Maybe she’ll just...use the hem of her shirt instead. 

She does, and it goes about as well as she expected, _honestly I don’t know why I even bother,_ and then the oven timer is going off and her dad is yelling something from the living room and her mom shouts back in a moan from somewhere upstairs and Steph just wants it all to _stop._ Just. 

For two seconds. That’s all she wants.

“I KNOW,” she hollers out the kitchen doorway, and she yanks out the metal pan and (gently) bangs it down onto the stovetop. If her dad wants some stupid cake for himself and his “friends”, he should bake it himself. Steph has other things she should be doing. Like finishing an article. And volunteering at the clinic, which she’s already _six minutes late for._

She grabs her backpack from the back of one of the kitchen chairs and slings it over one shoulder as she opens the back door. 

“I’ll ice the cake when I get back,” she calls over her shoulder. “Bye!”

 _"Come back here!”_ her dad starts, and Stephanie shuts the door to cut off the rest before he can really get going. 

She hums along to a Lizzo song as she pops her headphones in her ears and takes off down the sidewalk at a jog. If she hurries, she might still make it in time to sneak Eddie Miller an extra lollipop after he finishes getting his vaccines. She knows he was scared to get them, because he’s hated needles ever since he had to get stitches from Dr. Thompkins when he knocked the bookcase down on his forehead. Steph couldn’t really blame him. 

“Hi Leslie!” she calls as she lets herself in the back door. She makes sure to lock it again carefully behind her. _No repeats,_ she thinks. _Not on my watch._

“In here, Steph!” 

Stephanie drops her bag and takes a moment to scrub her arms up to her elbows at the sink, then ducks around the corner into the only occupied exam room. 

“Hi, kiddo,” Dr. Thompkins says, shooting her a quick smile from where she’s just smoothing down a second Band-Aid over Eddie’s skinny little thigh. 

“Hey, Dr. Thompkins,” Steph replies cheerfully. “Hey, little dude. Whadja pick out this time?”

Eddie sniffs, and Steph can see he was clearly crying a minute or two earlier. But he’s already pulled himself together and is cheering up. Brave little kid.

“Batman!” he says. “And Robin.”

“Batman and Robin, huh?” she says, smile still firmly in place. She really does hope Robin is okay. At least he’s finally back on patrol, so that’s a good sign, right? She doesn’t know what she was thinking, hitting him in the head like that. She just—panicked. 

She panicked. That was bad. Oh, god. Batman probably hates her forever now. Some vigilante she was turning out to be. 

“Yep,” Eddie says. “They’re my favorites.”

“He’s been very, _very_ into them, this year,” his Mom sighs, but she doesn’t seem truly exasperated. Just fond. 

“You’ve got good taste,” Steph says, and she ruffles his hair before Dr. Thompkins helps him down from the exam table and out through the hallway to the lobby. 

“Keep watch for any reaction symptoms, like fever, too much swelling, any kind of shortness of breath or nausea, you know the drill,” Dr. Thompkins is saying to Mrs. Miller. 

“I sure hope so, by now,” Mrs. Miller says wryly, as she ushers her other four kids up out of their chairs and towards the door. “Thanks, Dr. Thompkins. I appreciate it. Say bye bye, Eddie.” 

“Bye!” Eddie says quickly, before popping a bright green lollipop in his mouth to match the red one he had just polished off a minute earlier. The family sweeps out the door in a jumble of controlled chaos, and the clinic seems jarringly quiet and empty in their wake.

“I saw that,” says Dr. Thompkins, as she turns to scribble something on the clipboard at the front desk before handing it back to the volunteer receptionist. 

“Saw what?” Steph says, innocently. 

“You gave him that lollipop. I don’t know when you snatched it, but I saw you sneak it to him the second his mom set eyes on the other kiddos. You’re not as sneaky as you think you are.” She holds the door to the back open again and ushers Steph through before shutting it behind herself.

Steph laughs. “You’ve got years of practice catching all kinds of people doing all kinds of things,” she protests. “I don’t have to be that sneaky around normal people. His mom didn’t even realize before they left.”

“She will in the car,” Dr. Thompkins says, grinning now. “That was nice of you. He’ll remember that, next time. You’d better be here to sneak him another one if you know what’s good for you.”

“I hope I can be,” Steph says. “And, uh, on that note, sorry I’m late.”

“Everything okay at home?” Dr. Thompkins asks. She drops into the procedure room’s worn-out spinning chair as Steph takes up her usual perch on the counter. 

“Dad wanted me to bake a cake,” Steph sighs. “I don’t know why he can’t just order buffalo wings for his buddies like a normal person.”

“Mm. And on _that_ note, do you need a refill, Steph?”

Stephanie looks down for a second before meeting Dr. Thompkin’s eyes. 

“Yeah,” she says quietly. “I’m almost out and I don’t want to risk anything. Thanks, Leslie.”

“It’s literally no trouble,” Dr. Thompkins says, with a wave of her hand. She scribbles on a notepad and folds the paper into a little football before tossing it at Steph, who laughs as she snatches it out of the air. “That should get you another month. Make sure you give it to Louis, during the night shifts. He’ll give you the discount as long as I’m around.” 

“Thanks,” Steph says again.

“And how’s your mom?” Dr. Thompkins asks, then, leaning back in the chair. 

“She’s fine.”

“Fine?”

“Status quo,” Stephanie amends. “She’s got good and bad days. She hasn’t started taking any more than her usual, so for now I guess...things are okay. She’s not getting better, but she’s not getting worse anymore. Half the days she even remembers to do stuff around the house.”

“And you’re left with the other half,” Dr. Thompkins says gently. 

“I can handle it.”

“I know you can. I just wish you didn’t have to.”

“Yeah, well.” Stephanie kicks her sneaker against the old 80s tile a couple times, and digs the toe of her shoe into a nick. “It is what it is. It’s bound to get better sometime. Dad just needs to get caught and thrown in prison again.” She snorts and looks up at Dr. Thompkins. “Is it bad that that’s something I’m looking forward to?”

“Nah,” Dr. Thompkins says. “Not in this case. I think you’re good.”

“Bet,” Steph mutters, and leans back to thunk her head against one of the cabinets. “Slow afternoon today?”

“Mm hm. Nothing scheduled till three-thirty, actually. Which means there’s plenty of time for us to catch up, since we’ve barely gotten enough time to say hello these past couple of weeks.”

“Yeah,” Steph agrees. “It seems like every kid in the neighborhood has broken a bone or needed stitches this month.”

“So it goes, in summers,” Dr. Thompkins says, mock-sagely. “And how about you? Any new mysterious injuries you can’t tell me about after a night on the town?”

Stephanie has always had the distinct impression that Dr. Thompkins sees right through her, and knows a whole lot more than she lets on. She could probably rival Batman if she wanted to. But Steph isn’t about to give up the game unless she has to, and if she admitted to being Spoiler for no good reason and Dr. Thompkins hadn’t known after all, that would suck. Plus, there was the whole “mandated reporter” thing that they already tap danced circles around with Steph’s home life, just barely avoiding social services because Steph’s mom was minimally functional for now. 

“Nope,” Steph says, popping the p and grinning at Dr. Thompkins. 

_Leave it at that,_ she begs. _C’mon, Leslie, leave it at that for this week. Let’s talk about the Knights game or something._

“Good,” Dr. Thompkins says. “And have you cut any more since we last talked?”

Steph groans. 

_“Leslie,”_ she complains. 

“Answer the question, Steph.”

“Yes,” Steph mutters, giving Dr. Thompkins the stink eye. 

“How many times.”

“Four.” 

“Did you—”

“I used clean blades, I wiped them down with alcohol before and afterwards, I put butterfly bandaids on the one deep cut, and I’ve been applying ointment every day,” Stephanie interrupts, feeling cranky now. This was a good day. She doesn’t want to think about the bad while she’s in Leslie’s sanctuary. Tonight is already going to be shitty enough. 

“That’s good,” Dr. Thompkins says, undeterred. “And are you keeping them covered?”

Stephanie is silent. 

“Steph,” Dr. Thomkins says, exasperated. She reaches behind her and pulls on a pair of examination gloves. “You’ve got to take care of them. You’ve been lucky to not get any infections so far, with how active you are and the fact that you work at a pool. Having wounds rubbing against your clothing and bathing suit constantly isn’t going to help them heal.”

“I know that,” Steph snaps. 

“Let me see,” says Dr. Thompkins, as gently as Steph’s ever heard her. “Come on, Steph.” She’s standing in front of Stephanie now, careful to leave open a path to the door. Steph can’t really stay mad at her when she knows she’s just looking out for Steph. 

God knows Steph wishes _someone_ would, more often. She's so goddamn tired of raising herself.

“Fine,” she says, and unbuttons her jeans. She shimmies out of them without hopping off the counter, and watches Leslie’s hands like a hawk as the older woman folds Steph’s underwear down just enough to see what she needs to on either side, gently prodding the edges of cuts up and down Steph’s hip area in various stages of healing. She’s careful to narrate everything she’s doing. Steph appreciates that. 

“Can I clean and dress them really quick?” she asks finally, looking up at Stephanie. 

_It can’t hurt,_ Steph thinks. _At the very least, that’s one round of bandages I don’t have to pay for from the drugstore. And it’ll hold up better than anything I can manage while I’m out tonight._

“Okay,” she says. Dr. Thompkins nods and pulls out what she needs, working quickly and efficiently as always; clean, medicate, bandage, check for secure seal. When she’s finished, she gives Steph’s legs one final pat and holds the jeans out for Steph to grap. 

“I’m sorry,” Steph says quietly. “I know I said I was going to stop, and I was really trying, I did for a while, I just—”

Dr. Thompkins holds up a hand, throws her gloves in the waste bin, and turns to look Steph right in the eye. 

"You don’t need to apologize to me for anything,” she says. “Steph, honey, you’re doing what you have to do to make it through when things are intolerable. This isn’t the first thing you try. I know that. I know how hard you’re fighting to stop hurting yourself, and I’m proud of you. It’s better for you to fall back on self harming to cope when you’re really desperate than for you to end up even worse and doing something you can’t heal from so easily, hm?”Stephanie swallows. 

“Okay,” she whispers. “You’re not—you’re not gonna make me stop helping out around here?”

Dr. Thompkins frowns, looking genuinely confused. “Why would I do that?”

Steph shrugs. “I dunno. Just. Dad said if he ever caught me with cuts or scars again I’d be out of the house, since I’d be bad publicity, or a risk to others, or something, so I just...I figured maybe you wouldn’t want me around kids, or something.”

“Honey,” Dr. Thompkins says, and finally reels Steph into a hug. “No. I know you’d never hurt anyone. You’re fantastic with the kids, and a big help around here. I’m happy to have you around whenever you have time. And listen,” she adds, pulling back and staring at Steph with something fierce in her eyes. “If your dad ever does try to kick you out, you come straight here and you tell me. I won’t let you end up on the street. We’ll figure it out.”

“Okay,” Steph says, again. “I—thanks, Dr. Thompkins.”

“Any time,” the older woman says, patting Stephanie’s shoulder firmly. “Now come on. Let’s see if we can get another few boxes sorted through before the next appointment shows up. It’s Mr. Lewis, so I’ll bet you he’ll be late, as usual.”

Steph follows her out the door, and the rest of the afternoon flies by in a blur of comfortable busywork and friendly banter with both Dr. Thompkins and the patients. She always likes the days she can spend at Leslie’s clinic. They feel _normal_. They feel kind of like how she imagines a good home. 

And if she does occasionally sneaks a popsicle or lollipop for herself from one of the stashes? Leslie doesn’t really seem to mind.

* * *

Steph publishes the anonymous article to the Batwatch community site as she walks home, to be vetted by one of the mods. If all goes well, it’ll be up by tonight, and things might finally start picking up. 

Her moss has been doing well, and it’s definitely been getting notice. But only by the people in little clusters around each location. She’d thought there would be more of a buzz about the messages once the moss really became visible, but apparently she’d underestimated how much most people stuck to their own neighborhoods across most of the city. So the article was her backup, a nice guest piece on how someone has “noticed” on their daily bike rides that there was moss graffiti popping up around Gotham, and that they had made it their mission to compile a list of the clues. Or, rather, the spoilers. 

Steph uses a voice scrambler app to place a call to GCPD just before she made it back to her house, warning them about a robbery that was supposed to take place tonight at Gotham First Bank, and hangs up before they could convince her to give anything else away. She has to protect her identity, especially in case anyone on her dad’s side got a hold of the call recording after the fact. She has to be _careful_.

With any luck, her dad will be arrested tonight and tossed back in jail where he belongs, and that’ll be one fewer thing for Steph to worry about. It’s too late for that to stop the big plan in motion—Steph knows that. It was much bigger than just her dad, anyway. Much, much bigger. Steph doesn’t know exactly who’s behind all of it, herself, and she’s been _hunting_. But at least this will be a step. And if the article gets published, that’ll at least get some of the information onto Batman’s radar, too. 

She can work from there. As soon as she figures out how to get back in contact with them after, you know, nearly killing Robin. But it was an accident! 

_Hope Batman sees it that way,_ she thinks dejectedly. _Hope he doesn’t just take me down in two seconds and tie me up for the police as soon as he sees me._

She pushes open the rusty gate to their side yard and heads for the house. That’s a problem for future Steph to figure out.

Right now, she’s got a cake to finish. And it’s going to be _spectacular_. 

* * *

Steph ices the cake. 

It’s pristine, a chocolate buttercream coating she made herself and taste-tested to perfection. She pipes on white icing as well, in little shells around the edges, and tops it all off with very tasteful rainbow sprinkles and _“Happy Thursday!”_ in precise cursive that would make her 5th grade handwriting teacher _weep_. 

Also, every single part of the cake and icing is chock full of laxatives. This is going to be the worst night of her dad’s _life_. 

Steph can’t wait to spy on the police station after this one.

She places the pan, covered, on the coffee table, with plates and forks and a serving knife and Here you go, Dad, I hope you like it, it’s your nana’s old recipe like the good little daughter she is. Then she takes the stairs two at a time to her room, strips out of her clothes, and tugs on the underlayer of her costume. It takes a bit of time and tugging to get all the layers of leggings and undershirts and belts to play nicely with each other, but she manages. Then it’s time to tug on the outer layer, and the head covering, and more belts, and her mini-backpack with a few anonymous tips she’s planning to drop off at various offices, and she’s off. 

Steph slips out the window, closing it without pulling the latch behind her, and swings her way silently across the awning, hand over hand, till she reaches the porch roof. She drops down through the few-inch gap, sticking to the darkest part of the roof, and then with a running jump she’s flying through the air, onto the fence with barely a rattle, and scrambling up and over and out into freedom and the great big night. 

Gotham may be a shitty city, in a lot of ways, sure. But it’s her city. It’s her flesh and blood and bone and hard pavement, it’s her smoggy air and Crime Alley neighborhood and games with little kids who don’t know to be so afraid yet, and she’s not going to let it get taken down without a fight. 

Steph sprints across the alleys, heading towards Uptown, getting a decent head start. 

This night is going to work. She knows it. The plan is going to work out if it _kills_ her. And if she’s right—which, _duh,_ she totally is—it’s going to be the first big step towards stopping the Big Bad Plan of Unfathomable Suckiness, as she’s taken to calling it. 

_After tonight,_ she thinks, t _his whole city’s gonna know the name Spoiler. And they’re going to have to sit up and notice what’s going on under everyone’s noses. No more hiding from the shadows. Not when the shadows are gonna come knocking whether you hide from them or not._

_A_ _fter tonight,_ Steph says to herself, firmly, _everyone is going to know there’s a new player in town. And no matter what it takes,_ she vows, while kick-running and vaulting over a concrete barrier blocking her way to the city hall, _I’m going to win._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HOPE I PACED THIS OKAY I am so stressed lol 
> 
> Drink water! Eat if you haven't recently, even if all you can manage is one oreo or a little applesauce! Take any meds you need! Allow yourself to rest!
> 
> You can come yell with me on tumblr (@goldkirk) if you'd like. And I promise I'll write a oneshot sometime of their ACTUAL hike because I'm not gonna let that opportunity go to waste. I just didn't have room in the chapter for EVEN MORE at this point, it was already getting so long!


	13. wild-eyed boy (how much can you take?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we see what is up with Tim's mom, Tim and Bruce play cat-and-mouse, people Try At Least, and Tim tries once again to hammer some lessons into his head that are having a hard time sticking. He'll get there in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive typos and weird stuff right now, I'm stuck wearing a wrist brace and typing is a C H O R E right now, so between clumsy fingers and dictation wrangling, I'm doing my best but I'm sure I've missed stuff. I'll check it over again when I get a chance!
> 
>  **Content Warning:** mentions of vomit, blood, some passive suicidal ideation-ish, description of hospital areas.
> 
> Chapter title is from "Wild Eyed Boy" by Birds of Tokyo.

The Waynes stay at Wharton Forest for most of the morning and afternoon, then pile back into the minivan to head home at last. Tim finds himself once again in the back bench seat, but this time with his brothers. 

Cass and Babs called dibs on the middle seats this time, and keep passing a phone back and forth while trying to beat each other at Fruit Ninja. 

Jason is currently sacked out on Tim’s left (along with both Nova and Peanut), snoring quietly with his head tipped back and to the side awkwardly against the headrest, but Dick is wide awake and lobbying for a Disney sing along that Tim and Bruce simultaneously veto. 

“Come on,” Dick says. “it’s a road trip! You should always sing Disney on a road trip.” 

“It is a half hour long drive,” says Bruce. 

Dick throws a hand in the air and nearly clips Tim in the nose. “That’s long enough for _plenty_ of Disney.”

“Still a no, sunshine,” Bruce says, but he does throw Dick a fond smile through the rear-view mirror. “It’s Alfred’s turn to pick, and he wants Ludovico Einaudi.” 

“Oh _nice,”_ says Tim. 

“I am relieved to know that at least one person in this vehicle can appreciate fine composition when they hear it,” calls Alfred from up front. 

“Hey!” Dick protests. “I like his music too. I just like Disney more.” 

“Shh,” Tim says with a smile. “Talk later. Music and napping now.” He shifts around for a moment, nudging Ace’s sleepy body a little more onto Dick’s feet instead of his own—it’s only fair, he figures, since Dick’s legs are taking up, like, over half the room in the non-Jason chunk of the backseat. 

“All right, little bro, you make a good point.” Dick snakes an arm behind Tim and _tugs_. Tim doesn’t fight it. His head lands on Dick’s shoulder, and he closes his eyes as Dick’s head thumps down on top of his own loose curls. 

“Wake us when we’re home,” Dick calls up front. “Don’t want to miss game night—I still owe Jason payback for the last time we played Twister. I gotta stretch it out and get loose before we start.”

“Hn,” says Bruce. 

They settle in and get comfortable, backlit by the warm late afternoon sunlight pouring in through the windows, and drift off within minutes. 

* * *

Tim is woken up by gentle shaking, and he scrambles upright under the guidance of a steadying hand, blinking himself into full awareness. His room is still dark, lit only by the hallway light spilling through the few-inch gap between door and frame. It’s still early in the night. Not even two.

Bruce is perched on Tim’s mattress, brow furrowed and still wearing the underlayers of the Batsuit—he was supposed to be the only one on patrol tonight, while the kids all had movie night and watched The Princess Bride, but he’s back early. Maybe there was a change of plans and something happened to one of the others after all? Oh god. Who was it? Jason? Cass? Babs, driving home late from the manor, if she decided not to stay? Was Dick called back to Bludhaven for an off-hours case emergency and got—

Tim’s heart stutters. _No. Don’t go there before you know it’s even a possibility on the table._

“Tim,” Bruce says, one reaching out to grip Tim’s free arm. “It’s your mom.” 

Oh.

_Oh._

He should have thought that _first_ . He knows his mom is sick, that she’s—she’s _dying,_ he knows that. He knows. It’s always in the back of his mind. Why didn’t he think of her first?

An icicle has stabbed through Tim’s chest. He doesn’t breathe, doesn’t blink. Just stares at Bruce, eyes locked with his in the faint beam that illuminates part of the man’s face. Nova is up and carefully picking her way towards the headboard now, nosing at Tim’s hand, licking it a few times. 

Bruce takes up his other hand, squeezes it once.

“Your dad called while I was on patrol. She went to the emergency room in the late morning throwing up blood, and after some tests they pulled her into emergency surgery because one of the tumors had ruptured and caused a perforation in her stomach. That was taken care of and she’s settled in a room in the ICU as of a few hours ago.”

Tim stares for several seconds. Bruce doesn’t let go, his large thumb sweeping slowly back and forth across Tim’s cold knuckles. 

“She…” Tim tries to say, but his voice is barely audible. He clears his throat. “She’s—the hospital? She had surgery?” 

Bruce nods. 

Tim’s twisting, diving, and he feels bad for accidentally startling Nova, but he _has_ to check. His fingers close around his phone where it balances precariously at the edge of his mattress, and he yanks the charging cord out and jabs the home button, gaze sweeping the notification screen for a text, a call—he must have missed it while having fun. Tim thought he put his parents in the list to always go through even when his phone has Do Not Disturb turned on, but he guesses it didn’t work. 

He’s beating himself up, more than a little bit, because his parents were going through that and Tim was _oblivious,_ his mom was _throwing up blood_ in a cheerless hospital with strangers and he wasn’t even doing anything important, they needed him and he didn’t see—

Any messages. Tim didn’t see any messages. 

Because there aren’t any. 

The blanket is falling halfway down around his hips, twisted and tangled, and Tim’s leaning his whole body weight on one white-knuckled hand while the other clutches his phone close to his face as if that will make this make sense, and he turns his head to look up at Bruce, eyes asking the questions he can’t find the words for, and Bruce just shakes his head once, looking pained. 

“They didn’t tell anyone until they called me,” he says. “I came back as soon as I knew.”

Tim turns, then, staring blankly at the line of light coming in from the hallway, hardly seeing it at all. Bruce is easing the phone from Tim’s hand and setting it on his nightstand, ushering a concerned Nova off of the bed for the moment. 

Tim blinks, and Bruce is standing. He blinks again, and the lamp is on, and there’s an old hoodie of Jason’s in his hands that he absently remembers putting away in his closet the day before. 

Blinks again, and Bruce is squatting in front of him, at the edge of the bed, looking up into Tim’s eyes, faint worry lines on his forehead that Tim seems to bring out way too often since moving in here. Tim reaches out as if through molasses and brushes two fingers faintly over them, and Bruce gives him a small smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“Tim,” says Bruce. He places one hand against Tim’s cheek, cupping it, and circles Tim’s wrist with the other, two fingers landing on the pulse point as if this song and dance are as familiar to Bruce as breathing. Which, after Dick and Jason and Tim all moving in, Tim supposes it may very well be. “You need to stay _here_ for right now. Wake up a little bit, sweetheart. This is important, you need to make a decision.”

So Tim breathes. He starts counting, listing what he can see, what he can feel, what he can hear. Focuses on Bruce’s hands, and on Nova’s damp nose bumping his fingers where the rest limply on the duvet. 

“What?” he asks, maybe half a minute later. And this time, the smile reaches Bruce’s eyes, even though it’s so gentle it’s hardly there. 

“We can go see her right now,” Bruce says. “It’s after visiting hours, but they’ll make an exception. She’s stable for the moment, but if something goes wrong in the next day or so she could still go downhill quickly. She lost a lot of blood and her body doesn’t have much energy to fight and heal right now.”

“Does she—does she need more blood?” Tim asks. “I’m the same type as her. We’re both O positive. I can—”

“Tim, no buddy, you don’t need to donate your blood to her. The hospital has plenty in its blood bank. And even if it didn’t, other hospitals would ship some over. Don’t worry about that, okay? I just need to know if you want to see her tonight or if you want to stay here.”

Tim stares at Bruce for a few seconds just processing that. He has a _choice?_ He could just...not go? That’s ludicrous. He nearly laughs in Bruce’s face. 

Of course he has to go. It’s his _mom._

“I have to go,” he says. “I—this—” his voice won’t work right, but Bruce, as usual, understands anyway. 

He nods. “I figured. Here. Let me help.” 

Bruce basically manhandles Tim into the too-big hoodie and a pair of sherpa-lined boots, and makes sure Tim has his phone before finally steering him out of the bedroom. Alfred is already waiting for them in the hallway with two warm thermoses of coffee, prepared exactly how they each like. 

“Thanks, Alfie,” Tim says, as he shuffles past in a world that seems too bright and almost unreal, on and off, whenever he tries a bit too hard to focus his eyes. 

“You’re quite welcome, Master Timothy,” Alfred replies. He places a hand lightly on Tim’s frizzy bun as he walks past, just for a moment, and a flicker of _something_ tries to stir in Tim, but then he and Bruce turn the corner to the main wing and the moment is past. 

“Music or no music?” Bruce asks as they buckle themselves into the most nondescript car Bruce owns. 

Tim opens his mouth and nothing comes out. He’s trying to run a modern operating system on a desktop computer from 2001, and it feels like everything inside him is just grinding gears in eternal error loop. Finally he just gives a little shake, and thunks his head against the window, staring at his reflection in the side mirror. Bruce throws the car into reverse and begins to pull out of the garage. 

“Jason’s question mark playlist it is,” he says, and they take the turn onto the main road to the sound of a piano cover of _Where Is My Mind?_ drifting faintly through the speakers in the back. 

* * *

Tim hates the ICU. He’s been here twice before, when Ives was really sick, and they didn’t have time to go an extra ten minutes to the children’s hospital across the bridge. It’s full of too much glass and too little privacy, it’s full of people who are dying and some people who aren’t, the sound of machines and suffering literally never stop, but worst of all, the entire floor is just a giant soup of stressed-out relatives and friends making every waiting room, hallway, bathroom, and ICU room absolutely filled up to the brim with palpable misery and fear. 

Tim takes two steps through the security doors and almost walks right back out. 

Bruce’s hand is strong and constant on his shoulder. 

“Steady,” he murmurs to Tim, and Tim puts one foot in front of the other, past the crying room, past the main desk, past a room with an elderly man who looks already dead on a ventilator, past a room with a young adult who’s surrounded by a vibrant family and responding to none of them, past someone who’s making every monitor in the room scream in alarm and surrounded by a hurricane of nurses, and finally stops in front of sliding glass door number seven, curtains drawn inside the room but one light still shining through the upper mesh. 

“You ready?” Bruce asks. 

“No,” says Tim, and he slides the door open anyway. Bruce slides it shut again behind them as Tim curls his fingers around the edge of the giant curtain, peeking his head around just far enough to say “Mom?” and catch sight of the woman lying in the bed.

It’s his mom. It’s not his mom. It’s a body he doesn’t recognize, with a face he’d know in a blizzard on Hoth, even half-frozen and out of his mind. 

Tim’s dad looks up from the recliner squeezed in awkwardly next to the hospital bed, flanked by an array of poles with different IV bags and drip controllers on them. A vitals monitor screen is anchored directly to the bed.There’s an oxygen mask on his mom’s face that’s plugged directly into the wall. 

“Tim,” Jack says, standing and stepping forward, and there is not a single thing threatening in his body language or voice but Tim is suddenly so angry his breath catches in his throat. 

His father sounds grateful, relieved, as if he’s glad Tim is here, finally. But he didn’t call Tim. He didn’t text. Tim’s mom could be dead right now, if the surgery hadn’t gone well, and Tim could have been finding out from a social worker for all he knows. His mom could have been dead before Tim even know to worry more than usual. And yeah, that’s. That’s how this works. He knows that. But it’s one thing for that to be the ever-present elephant in the room, and an entirely different thing for it to happen because of someone’s _decisions_. 

Jack nods at Tim, his eyes appearing actually damp. Tim can’t remember ever seeing his dad cry while he was growing up all these years, though the empty house definitely didn’t afford him many opportunities to see that in the first place. Then he turns to Bruce and holds out a hand, brisk and confident, just like a Drake. 

_Chin up, shoulders down and back, breathe in a little and puff that chest out, that’s it darling!_ his mom instructs him from the faint hallways of his early memory. _Now, hand out, clean angles, fingers together and remember to be firm. Don’t let your eyes or face give anything away—you have to be pleasant and blank as a car salesman. There you go! A proper Drake Industries business greeting if I’ve ever seen one. You’re a natural._

Tim hates handshakes.

Bruce grasps Jack’s offered hand a bit more tightly than necessary and pumps it up and down a few times. 

“Jack,” he says, Brucie grin firmly in place, if a little more muted than usual. “Always good to see you, though I wish it were under better circumstances.”

“Yes, well,” Jack says, finally pulling away and turning back towards the chair. “I’m glad you could make it. Janet’s been in and out for the past hour. She’ll probably wake up again soon.”

“Why didn’t you _call me,”_ Tim grinds out before he can stop himself. 

Jack blinks.

“What do you mean, buddy?” he asks.

“Yesterday. When this started. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“We had it under control,” Jack says. “There was no need to worry you prematurely. You’re a young man now, we know you’re often busy with your own life.”

If Tim wasn’t so speechless with frustration and red-hot fury right now, he’d be spitting several things loudly enough for the entire ICU to hear. 

Things like _after the way our entire last fight went I can’t believe you literally went and did this again,_ and _mom almost died and I didn’t even know till after the fact, how would you feel if I did that to you,_ and _it takes less than thirty fucking seconds to send a text at least how hard would that have been,_ and also maybe _Mom and I have been trying so hard to get on good terms again before she dies and I want that with you too but you never seem to want to actually try._

Things like _do you know how much it hurts to be forgotten about. Do you know how tired I am of being left behind._

What finally comes out after several seconds of careful breathing (and a quick squeeze from Bruce to remind Tim to keep control or they’d have to leave) is, “Next time...please just call, okay? Even if you have to leave a message. Just promise me you’ll try.”

“Okay,” Jack says, sounding a little surprised, but not hostile. “I’ll text or call, if your mom can’t. She was going to call you, actually, while we were back in one of the triage rooms downstairs. But right before she did, some doctors came in and hustled her right out, and I just forgot in all the chaos.”

Well. That’s. Tim blinks away a little bit of heat from his eyes. That’s a nice surprise. His mom had tried, at least. Maybe she really was changing, more than he was able to tell over their weekly phone calls. And at least his dad hasn’t gotten upset with him tonight, even when Tim walked in and immediately used an accusatory tone. 

“Okay,” Tim says, after a few beats. “Thanks.” 

Jack nods, and asks Bruce something Tim tunes out as he steps up to the other side of his mom’s bed, looking over the monitors he knows how to read. 

Nothing’s currently flashing red and screeching, but Tim’s pretty sure her numbers aren’t doing great. Her blood pressure looks low, especially but...Tim’s no doctor. He has to trust they know what they’re doing and it will be okay. 

His knuckles are white on the bed railing as he leans forward to see Janet’s face clearly, and he reaches out one hand to straighten her pillow, right where part of the cheap scratchy pillowcase had double-folded under her bald head. 

That can’t be comfortable, not with how paper-thin and sensitive her poor skin looks. Tim decides he’s going to bring her some of her silk pillowcases from home. He remembers Janet talking about how she takes them with her everywhere from Venice to the most remote dig sites, because as long as she’s got one of her pillowcases to lay on, even sleeping on dirt becomes something enjoyable. 

And _Jack_ sure isn’t going to remember something little like that. It’s always been Tim who looks out for his parents’ small needs, whether they notice or not. 

It’s been an adjustment living with the Waynes, who are all so constantly observant that _everyone_ knows everyone else’s smallest habits and accommodates them as easily as breathing. Like tonight, when Alfred had Bruce and Tim’s coffees ready-made exactly the way they liked them best. He just _knew_. Both that they’d want coffee for this trip, and that Tim would choose to go at all. 

As his hand tugs the pillow, his mom’s face scrunches for a moment, and she lets out a soft sigh. Tim freezes, watching with wide eyes, and after a few seconds Janet’s eyes blink open and squint against the dim light. She looks around, spotting Jack near-instantly and giving him a faint smile through the mask. Her brows knit together slightly when she sees Bruce, but she keeps turning, and then she sees Tim, standing next to her, still as a statue, and her face melts into something warm and open in a way Tim has never seen in living memory. 

“Baby,” she whispers, raspy and barely-there. “You came.”

“Of course I did,” Tim says, and swallows once. Bruce is suddenly beside him, and Jack is left on the other side of the bed to slump back down in the recliner and stare at his wife with clear adoration and tired eyes. He hardly remembers to glance at Tim. 

Janet reaches out one stick-thin hand, her knuckles jutting out in a way that shakes Tim deeply in ways he doesn’t know how to describe. He takes it in both of his, kisses it once, and then rests it back on the mattress without letting go. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks. 

“Oh, you know,” she rasps, trying for cheerful but mostly just sounding strained. “Been better. The vacation here isn’t as good as at the usual beach resorts. I’d give it a four out of ten. Much better things to go do than emergency surgery. I don’t recommend trying it.”

Tim can’t help laughing. “I’ll keep that in mind.” 

She quiets then, and stares up at him with something Tim can’t identify shining in her eyes. Her mouth twists up slightly. 

“I think you’re getting taller every time I see you,” she says. “You must be growing like a weed surrounded by all those other men at Wayne Manor.” 

“I can’t really deny it,” Tim says. “I grew enough that I’ve had to get four new school uniforms in a year and a half.”

“Wow,” his mom breathes. Or wheezes, really. She’s looking a little paler than she did when he first came in, he thinks, but that might just be the lighting. “So big.” 

There’s a little more idle chit-chat, but his mom is clearly fading out again. Bruce suggests they take a break and go find a vending machine, since it’s the middle of the night and Tim’s probably hungry, and Tim quickly agrees. 

“Do you actually want anything?” Bruce asks, once they’re out in the hallway, safely through the ICU’s double doors and away from the constant beeping. 

Tim shakes his head vehemently. “I think I’d puke,” he answers honestly. 

“Okay,” says Bruce, and he doesn’t push. They spend fifteen minutes or so perched together in a large windowsill, looking out across a lower roof and what little of Gotham’s lights they can see. Then it’s back to the noise, the crushing desperation in the air, the haze of drugs Janet’s on and the way Jack tries but doesn’t know how to speak to Tim about anything that really matters. 

Then a couple of the nurses come in with their bad news faces on, and Tim’s heart drops down to about his ankles. 

“Mrs. Drake’s vital signs haven’t come up the way we’d hoped,” one of them says, as gently as possible. “Her blood pressure has actually dropped, even with the extra unit and saline that have been transfusing. The doctor believes she’s still bleeding somewhere, and we need to take her back in again.”

“Back in again?” Jack asks, as Janet starts to stir at the sound of new voices. “You mean she just came out of major surgery a few hours ago, and he wants to open her back up?”

“Yes sir,” one of the nurses says. “I’m sorry, we’re just here to draw some blood and get her prepped, as long as we have your consent. The doctor wants us to meet him in the OR.”

“Hold on a minute,” Jack nearly growls, and Tim presses backwards into Bruce’s chest as strong arms wrap around him like a shield from the whole room. “If Dr. Barton fixed her stomach, why in the world is she still bleeding? Did he screw up?”

“We don’t know, sir, I’m sorry. It’s possible that something was left behind when the surgical team closed after her surgery, or that a slow-leaking blood vessel was missed that is tucked behind something. The doctor won’t know until we can do an ultrasound and go back in to check.”

“Is she even strong enough to handle this?”

“I promise the surgical team will do everything possible to get her through it safe and sound,” the first nurse promises, walking past with several fresh vials of blood. “She’s a strong woman. I know she’s got some fight left in her.” She says this last part with a wink tossed at Janet in the bed, who smiles back with a bit more energy than she’d had a few moments ago. “Listen,” the nurse goes on, voice growing more confident. “Mrs. Drake, I’ve seen videos of you going up against those boardrooms and conferences full of people who think you’re just a pretty face and cold finish and don’t deserve the position you’ve got, and I’ve watched you put them in their place with style and glorious rhetoric. If anyone can pull through this mess, ma’am, it’s you. I think you’re going to do just fine.”

“Thank you,” Janet rasps. “That means a lot.”

“It’s my pleasure,” the woman says, flushing slightly all of a sudden. “I’ve learned a lot from you, over the years. I’m rooting for you.” Then she sweeps out past the curtain with one last smile and vanishes from sight. 

There’s a flurry of activity for several minutes as various staff members prep Janet to be taken to the OR again, once she and Jack have given consent. Tim stands off to the side, invisible to everyone besides Bruce, and it’s comfortable. This is how he’s spent most of his life, waiting for the moment he’s remembered and just observing the rest of the time, unseen, unneeded. This, he knows. 

Jack and Janet have a slightly tearful goodbye, as final preparations are done. Then Jack steps out of the room into the hallway, and a few nurses unlock the bed wheels and begin to roll it towards the door. 

“Wait,” says Bruce, at the exact same moment as Janet does. And the room stops. All eyes turn to him, and consequently, to Tim as well. 

“Tim,” Janet murmurs, reaching out the hand that is mostly free from sensors and IV catheters. 

He steps forward towards the bed, and feels like a deer staring down the barrel of a shotgun. Every eye is on him, and he doesn’t know what to say, to do, to think. Everything is happening so fast. He doesn’t understand why she’s going back, he doesn’t understand what it means, and all he can think is _Dad said goodbye like he meant it, and I just watched them cry._ All he can think is _what if she dies tonight after all? There’s no guarantee. If it went wrong once, it went wrong again, and her blood pressure is too low, and she sounds like death, and—_

“Can I have,” Janet asks, in the quiet of the room, “a few moments alone with my son?”

After a few moments, the staff leaves—”But only for a minute,” the most senior nurse warns. “We really do need to get you down there, Mrs. Drake.”

Bruce makes sure Tim is looking him in the eyes before he speaks. “I’ll step out,” he says, “but do you want me in the hallway right here or the waiting room? I’m okay with either.” 

Tim thinks for a moment, running through scenarios, factoring in sounds and proximity and _if Dad is also in this hallway and he and Bruce don’t like each other, placing them nearby and having Dad watch me walk off with another man instead of him will only make him more upset,_ and that’s Thing To Avoid #1. 

So Tim opens his mouth and says, “Waiting room,” even though he wants nothing more than to walk out of this room and bury his face in Bruce’s sweater and never see the rest of the hospital again as soon as this is over. 

Bruce nods. “I’ll be on the couch bench by the water cooler.” And then he’s gone.

Tim steps slowly up to the railing of the bed, knowing they’re on a timer. He doesn’t know what to _do_. 

“Tim,” Janet whispers, her free hand reaching up and shaking with the effort as she strokes her knuckles along his cheek once, twice, before her arm drops back down to the mattress. “Tim, my baby boy. I’ve been avoiding saying a lot of things, because...I’ve been afraid. But just in case there’s not more time—”

 _“Mom,”_ Tim interrupts, voice cracking, but Janet just shushes him with her same old _you listen to me right now, young man_ look, and Tim’s mouth snaps shut out of sheer habit. 

“I need you to know,” Janet says, breathlessly, “that I was wrong, to treat you the way I did. I can’t speak for your father, but I’ve been...I’ve been trying to learn. Reading parenting books, all that. Mr. Wayne has been helping, he’s a good man. And I was _wrong,_ Tim, and I want to tell you that I’m sorry for all the times I hurt you, and for all the times I wasn’t here. Nothing is ever going to make up for that, and I know it.” She pauses for several seconds to catch her breath. Her lips are pale, all of her is pale, and thin and frail and everything Janet Drake never was. 

Tim feels sparks on his skin, hot, then ice cold, and he thinks he’s shaking, but he’s so stunned and reeling from this bedside confession that it hardly registers. 

“I love you, Timmy,” Janet whispers, struggling to keep her eyes open with how much energy she’s just exerted. “No matter what happens. I’m so proud you’re my son. I can’t take credit for who you’ve been becoming, but I’m proud of you anyway. I’m sorry I wasn’t a better mother. I hope—” she takes another large breath. “I hope I get a little more of a chance. I hope you’ll let me—let me try.”

The nurses are flowing back around the curtain as Janet’s oxygen saturation monitor starts to alarm, and a gentle hand pushes Tim back. He watches them turn the oxygen levels up as they wheel Janet away. She’s through the curtain, then the door, then rounding the corner, and then…

Tim steps out of the room and finds himself standing side by side with his father, both watching in silence as Janet’s bed vanishes into the staff-only elevator and fully out of their sight. 

Tim is numb. Numb, numb, numb, and _confused,_ and feeling like a piece of tumbleweed blown around in the wind so much that he doesn’t know which way is up anymore. He’s thirty minutes behind, while the world keeps turning without mercy.

Jack looks at Tim and sighs. 

“Well,” he says. “This has been an all around terrible day.”

Tim nods, mute. He doesn’t know what else to do. 

Jack looks down at Tim, and Tim looks back, unsure what is going to happen next. Should he go back to Bruce now? Does Jack suddenly want to have a heart to heart, too? Then Jack speaks. 

“You’re still in the will, you know,” he says. And. _What?_ “In case you wondered. After all this mess with Wayne and the state. It was considered, for a moment, but since you’re still technically ours by law, we’ve kept you in, and you’re the main heir to Drake Industries and our personal fortune. Since we’re on the topic.”

_Since we’re on the—_

“She’s not going to die,” Tim says. He feels like someone’s just smashed a frying pan into his chest. “You—Dad, what—” Tim takes a few deep breaths, and now the anger is rising. He can feel again, and it is _red_ . “Mom is _not_ going to die tonight,” he snaps. “And I don’t care about the will, or your stupid fortune, or any of that. I don’t care about the money! I just wanted _parents,_ Dad, I wanted you to _love me!_ Mom isn’t going to die, and I don’t want your company, I want a family, and I just don’t know why you can’t understand that!” 

A few nurses are heading their way now, Tim sees in his peripheral vision, and he’s got to cut this short. 

“When something is wrong,” he hisses, “you call me! You _tell_ me! Maybe you want to forget I exist, and live in your perfect world where you don’t have a son who has his own needs and opinions and feelings, and that’s fine, whatever, but I’m still a part of this family too, and if my mom is dying I want to be TOLD!” Tim takes two steps away, ducking under the too-slow arm of a male nurse, and then whips around to add, “I just wanted to be good enough for you to want me, Dad! I just wanted _you.”_ And then he’s spinning on the ball of his foot and he’s off. 

* * *

Tim slams his way through one side of the double doors, and his boots pound past the ICU waiting room in what he’s sure is a blur to anyone sitting inside. 

If Bruce calls for him, Tim doesn’t hear, but after a several seconds, he’s got just enough awareness left to tell that he has a shadow. It doesn’t register as a threat. 

Tim flees anyway. 

He takes a stairwell down to the ground floor three steps at a time, or five on the half-floor bits, using the railing to vault whatever he can, and he ignores the shout of a security guard as he books it across the main hospital lobby, nearly empty at this unnatural hour, and twists through the revolving door with a move that would make Dick proud. 

He risks one glance behind him to confirm that Bruce is, indeed, following Tim, step for step, about ten yards behind, even though Tim _knows_ the man could overtake him in seconds. It’s infuriating. 

Tim wants to be left alone, and he wants to be caught, and he wants the world to change, and a part of him wants to not exist as Tim at all. 

So he sprints straight across the road as horns blare in the night, diagonally across the four-way intersection, and doesn’t wait for a crosswalk. His hand catches a flagpole to speed his pivot as he runs past the elementary school that he stopped a mugging outside of, not long ago, and he keeps on going down several streets, past townhouses and housing projects and Mr. Rodriguez’s bodega with the city’s best Provolone cheese. His feet carry him on autopilot up the little-known path to the top of the natural history museum, right at the top of the hill. His hands and feet find old climbing holds with the grace of Robin and the muscle memory of a latchkey kid who needed a secret escape and found sanctuary above other specimens forgotten and abandoned by time, left as a memorial and lesson to all the other children of the world to make them value the present and what they have in it. 

His old stash is still there, where he left it last as BatWatch, and he may not have come here for a couple of years, but he hasn’t forgotten the best way to the peak of the stone roof. He’s up in a matter of seconds, heaving for air above the view he knows as intimately as the inside of every hidey-hole wardrobe in his old home. 

* * *

A minute or so later, Tim hears the faint sounds of someone scrambling over the edge of the roof, and knows it’s time to pay the piper. But he’s not ready to move. 

“Tim,” Bruce says, and. Tim just.

After _everything_. After all this, after all the times Tim’s broken down, shouted at him, pushed him away, thrown a shoe at his head, stubbornly refused help, caused extra work, run away, Bruce still doesn’t sound mad. Tim just led him across oncoming traffic and through Gotham at night with no protection, and Bruce _still_ doesn’t sound like he’s going to yell. 

Tim’s starting to get that it really isn’t an act. Bruce really doesn’t seem to be saving up all the disappointments and frustrations to explode at a later date. Unless he’s the world’s best long-term chess player, and can hold them for like, two years at a time.

“Tim,” Bruce says again, closer now, and Tim can’t help how he hunches down further into the ball he’s become. 

“Go away,” he says, more for appearances than anything else. He’s too wrecked to know what he actually wants right now.

“No.”

“B. Leave me alone.”

“No, Tim. I need to make sure you stay safe.”

“What if I don’t want you to. What if I don’t care.” And, uh, whoa. Tim doesn’t really know where that came from. But...he does kind of mean it. Now that he thinks about it. 

“I stay anyway. Especially if you can’t or won’t keep yourself safe at the moment.”

“I can take care of myself on my own,” Tim snaps, twisting around to glare at Bruce briefly. “I raised myself for years and did just fucking fine. I’m not dead yet, am I? Just leave me alone.” _Like Mom and Dad always did_ goes unspoken between the two of them, heavy in the air left unmoved. 

“No,” Bruce says, still calm.

Tim takes several breaths in and out of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut against the view as he tries to center himself with his breathing. 

“I _hate—_ ” he starts, then cuts himself off. “I don’t.” He sounds miserable, even to his own ears. “I don’t hate them. I feel like I should, but I don’t. I love them too much.”

“I know.”

“I try so hard to be good for them. I don’t get—I don’t know why it wasn’t enough. I know you all say it’s not my fault and I’m trying to believe that, but—I can’t yet. I can’t. Bruce. I _can’t.”_

Bruce hauls himself up on the narrow peak with Tim, then, and only says, “Can I touch you?”

Tim stares at him for a full six seconds before he finally nods. Bruce scoots over on his butt until he’s against Tim, and wraps his arms around Tim’s shoulders, pulling him back a little bit more from the drop-off. 

Tim sags into Bruce’s chest. 

“I think,” he whispers, “I hate myself, actually.”

“Yeah?” Bruce whispers back. 

“Yeah,” Tim says. And he doesn’t cry. He doesn’t even feel particularly upset. Just...clear. Numb. Empty. “I know we’ve talked about things not being my fault, and I understand that rationally. But I think I don’t believe that at all, still, and Bruce. I absolutely hate myself for everything. I failed everything. I know I didn’t. But I _did.”_ He tilts his head back to look up at Bruce. “Does that make any sense?”

“It makes complete sense, sweetheart,” Bruce says. “You’ve spent your life in an impossible situation where you haven’t been treated right by the people who are supposed to love and care for you. Your two options were to either accept that they’re in the wrong and not good for you, or to believe that it must be something wrong with you instead. And kids need to believe in the goodness and infallibility of their caregivers. We have studies on this. So of course you turned it on yourself. I’m just so sorry you were ever in that position at all.” He squeezes Tim a little tighter. “I’m going to ask you a few questions, okay? And I need you to be honest with me. You won’t be in trouble no matter what you say.”

Tim nods. 

“Do you want to die?”

Tim has to think for a moment. “No,” he says, honestly. 

“Do you want to hurt yourself?”

“No.”

“Do you feel like you don’t actively want to die on purpose, but it wouldn’t be so bad if you could just stop existing and everything went away?”

Tim freezes in Bruce’s arms, breath hitching, because how did Bruce know so clearly what Tim had been feeling when he ran across that street? When he ran at all? What he feels on bad nights, on hiding-in-wardrobes-and-closets days, on the days when Alfred has to hunt him down and practically force-feed him protein shakes just so Tim eats anything at all?

“Sometimes,” he whispers. 

“Okay,” says Bruce. “It’s okay, Tim. It’s all right. Can you look at me for a moment?”

Tim twists around until he can stare Bruce in the eyes, still wrapped securely in his arms. 

“I’m not taking away Robin,” Bruce says, right off the bat. “And I’m not going to punish you. But you and I are going to talk to Diana specifically about that kind of feeling, and when you feel it. And every time it’s happening, I want you to tell me. I’ll keep you safe when you aren’t up to doing it yourself, do you understand? I’m—I’m your adult. It’s what I’m here to do.”

Tim stares at Bruce, feeling protected and confused and overwhelmed and loved and lost and afraid all at once. He thinks of how many times Bruce has helped him, carried him, made him laugh, known him better than he knows himself. How Bruce gave him wings. How Bruce has never turned him away. How Bruce has pulled Tim in, literally and metaphorically, over and over again. 

“You’re not my adult,” Tim says. “You’re—you're my _dad_. The closest thing to a real dad I've ever had. And—I still trust you,” he adds. “I trust you, B. I trust you to catch me.”

Bruce’s face is as soft as Tim’s ever seen it. 

“I love you, Tim,” he says. “And maybe one of these days, you can even trust me to keep you safe enough you don’t need me to catch you at all.”

* * *

Bruce doesn’t let go of at least some part of Tim the whole way down from the museum roof. They walk hand in hand across the blocks until Tim nearly ran face-first into a lamppost, and then Bruce just swept Tim up onto his back and carried on walking the rest of the way to the parking garage. 

“I’ve got you,” he said, once he had a firm grip on Tim’s legs.

Tim let his weight rest across Bruce’s back let himself sink into the touch and comfort he still craved as much as the first day he’d shown up at the manor, and laid his head on Bruce’s shoulder like a kid. 

They don’t break apart until Bruce drops Tim in the front seat of the car, and once they both have buckled in, Bruce takes one of Tim’s hands as soon as he’s put the car into drive and doesn’t let go until he has to park at the gas station. 

* * *

It’s there, where an infuriatingly bright-eyed Dick meets them, in uniform on his way to Bludhaven, where Bruce steps out of the car while the gas is pumping to call Alfred and give him an update that they’re on their way home, where Tim realizes his mom could be dying that night or morning, that very moment, that Tim finally breaks down.

He’s sitting in the car, still buckled, one moment, and then the next thing he knows, he’s sobbing as if the whole world is about to end, tears pouring down his face as he wails loud enough to be heard two pumps over, judging by the looks their car is suddenly attracting. 

Dick is there in a second, flinging the door open the rest of the way and immediately hauling Tim out of the front and into the back seat where they can actually cuddle. He guides Tim’s face into his own jacket, where the sound will be a little more muffled, and makes sure all the doors are shut around the car. 

“Oh, Tim, buddy,” Dick says, and Tim just sobs harder. “It’s okay. It’s okay to cry. You let out everything you need to. I know it’s scary.”

Bruce gives them a few minutes, puts the nozzle back in the gas pump’s holder, and then finally climbs through the other door to the backseat and holds both of his sons together. 

“I’m so proud of both of you,” he says, soft but still audible over Tim’s quieting sobs. His hand doesn’t hesitate to stroke through Tim’s sweaty hair, rest steadily on the back of his neck so Tim doesn’t feel quite as shaky. 

Tim finally manages to get himself down to sharp little hiccuping breaths, and pulls away from them both. He looks over at Dick, rueful. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I got your uniform all messed up.”

“I don’t know if you’ve heard, little bro,” Dick says, grinning, “but there are these really cool things called _lockers_ —a lot of workplaces have them, yeah, and you can use them to hold things like extra clothes. Just in case.” 

Tim still feels like...well. Kind of like crap, if he’s being honest. Really tired, steamrolled, hot-and-sweaty crap. But he rallies enough to stick his tongue out at Dick, and then give him a big hug for real before they all pile out of the back seat and Dick heads off on his bike towards his own city. 

Bruce makes sure Tim is all buckled in before pulling away from the station, and within minutes they’re on the drive that will take them to the gate of the manor, and from there up to their home, where Alfred has promised soothing tea and some light breakfast. 

The sun is just beginning to lighten the sky in the East. 

“I’m sorry I have to make this so hard on you all the time,” Tim says, as Bruce’s hand doesn’t leave off rubbing the back of his neck. It’s as good as a massage, and Tim’s head drops back to rest against the seat, his neck turning into a limp linguini noodle. 

“You’re not the first,” Bruce says, laughing a little. “And I just want to help. You’re doing your best. I wasn’t always a well-adjusted adult, myself, if you can believe it. Alfred did for me what I’m trying to do with all of you. Believe me—what _you_ do? I got myself into trouble ten times worse. It’s going to be okay, Tim, you’ll heal. We’ll get you there.” They park, and before Tim pops his door open, Bruce swoops down to drop a kiss on his cheek and look him in the eye.

“I’ve got you,” he says. “Day or night. Any time you need me. I said when all of this started, way back when, and I’ll keep saying it however many times you need. I’m not going to let you fall. Okay, sweetheart?”

Tim leans his forehead against Bruce’s for a moment, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. 

“Okay,” he says. “Okay, B. I trust you.”

Then he pulls away, slides out of the car. They head inside, to their little family minus one, to Jason and Cass, ready with fresh scones they “helped” make, to Nova, anxiously waiting for Tim to come back and let her do he job, to Alfred, with Tea and broth and exactly the right words for everyone who needs to hear them. 

_Trust,_ Tim thinks, over and over that day, as he falls asleep, as his dad finally texts an update— _Mom ok, back in ICU. More later._ —as Bruce sits down with Tim to write an email to Dinah once they’ve both gotten some sleep, as Tim lies on Bruce’s rug in the study with Nova sprawled across his chest, listening to Bruce recall some of the things Alfred had had to rescue _him_ from, back in the day. 

_Trust. I trust you, we trust each other, they trust me._ All different kinds of trust, different purposes, different depths. But that’s what being a family is, at its heart. He’s _learning_. His family is the people he trusts, who trust him, who exist in a circle of knowing that no one will be abandoned or rejected or forgotten. A circle of love, of help, of trust.

He trusts them to keep him together through all of this. And he trusts himself to learn to speak up when he’s not all right. And above all, he does, he really does trust Bruce, to catch him. Every time he falls. As many times as it takes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please please be kind to yourself today/night. Drink, eat at least a little, take any meds you need, say one nice thing about yourself, get some rest when you can. <3


	14. and everybody knows that the plague is coming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim just wants to play Stardew Valley. Instead he gets a lot of work and an undercover trip. Tim and Steph meet for real, and someone's gonna be in a lot of trouble real soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOPE YOU ENJOY!!!! 
> 
> Chapter title is from "Everybody Knows" by Sigrid.

So. 

Here’s the thing. 

Tim is _meticulous_. He’s always had to be. He’s been taking care of himself more often than not for years, and mistakes are not fun when you’re raising yourself and have to cook food right or not eat at all for a couple of days if you happen to break a kitchen appliance and are too young to be trusted with a credit card for takeout. 

During his time running BatWatch, Tim learned both paranoia and _extreme caution_. No security is ever perfect, but Tim did his level best to minimize his chances of being tracked or caught. He used VPNs, swapped out burner devices, managed more than seven separate email accounts and online identities when he had to formally communicate with the police, banks, random citizens, the media. He only slipped up once, and luckily it was with a citizen instead of, say, Batman, or one of the Rogues fishing for his identity. 

Tim learned from that , and never made the same mistake again. He made backups of his backups of his backups, of _everything_ he had. He stacked alibis. He kept as much data offline as possible. And he always, always kept tabs on potential threats. 

When Tim took up the mantle of Robin, finally, he mostly put aside the BatWatch blog and Twitter account except for once-weekly photo dumps and broad recaps of major events. The police honestly have been doing a good job of keeping the Gotham Updates account updating quickly and with accurate reports, so it’s worked out pretty well. 

But when BatWatch shut down, the forums went up, and Tim is still the secret ringmaster behind the whole thing. All major decisions and policing still go through him. 

Which is how, the day after his mom’s surgery, he opens his laptop to play some Stardew Valley and accidentally figures out who Spoiler is instead. 

* * *

After what he’s seen and heard, that night with the new caped figure on the roof, Tim has been keeping an even closer watch than usual on the city. He’s tapped the police department, he’s got an informant in Blackgate, he’s got the street kids on the lookout, he’s got social media terms flagged to alert him if people are chattering online about the new cape or anything else suspicious. 

Because Bruce may be the surveillance extraordinaire in the family, but Tim is the world’s best paparazzi. He had eyes everywhere in this city by age _twelve_. One mysterious figure is not as hard to track as Batman seems to think it is. 

But Tim is keeping quiet, for now, because...well. He’s _still_ cautious. He uses the Batcave resources, of course, but most of Tim’s systems are still separate, as a precaution. He runs with Batman, but keeps his own channels open. And Batman generally supports that. It adds an extra element of safety in case of a cyber attack, and they’re always working together anyway. 

Except on this. 

Because Tim’s spent the past few weeks hiding information from Batman and the others while he gathers data on the new player in town, trying to wait for the right moment. He knows it’s a she. He knows she’s from Crime alley. He knows she’s not hurting anyone, and she’s got some...interesting graffiti going up around the city, which Tim doesn’t understand yet.

He knows she’s afraid. 

He knows she’s probably been hurt. 

And he knows that if Bruce drops in on the same roof as her, bristling and overprotective after what she did to Tim in a moment of sheer panic and _not_ a whole lot of rational thought, she’s going to bolt and then fight them every step of the way while they try to get information from her. 

She’s _smart,_ and slippery. From what the street kids and police have said, she knows her way around the city like a Bat, and has dirty details on enough public figures to blackmail half of Gotham’s corrupt upper sector without batting an eye. But she _hasn’t._ She’s just been running around, setting up and dropping off messages, and Tim wants to know _why_. 

He logs in to his laptop and double-clicks the Stardew Valley icon, then flicks over to the web browser to kill time till it opens. 

_Oughtta check my BatWatch email,_ he thinks. _Been a couple days. Let’s see what I have to catch up on._

There’s the usual end-of day updates from the other mods, a few complaints and user harassment reports that have been escalated up the chain for him to deal with, and four guest blog post submissions. He knows they’ll have already been approved or rejected by one of the other mods by now, since DoctorDogwood in particular has a policy of never letting them sit in limbo for more than two hours, and they all generally try to follow that rule around the clock. 

But Tim flicks through them anyway, because he likes to keep tabs, and they’re mostly the standard fare—a neighborhood watch report on how cleanup is going from the last Riddler fiasco, someone swearing up and down that they know who Batman is and have _proof_ —complete with a nearly illegible PowerPoint presentation made by someone clearly as high as the exosphere. _Apparently,_ Tim reads, Batman is actually the great-grandson of John Wilkes Booth. And the proof is—apparently a discarded Air Jordan this person found stuck in a fence. 

Tim snorts and deletes the email, moving on to the last two. A concerned mother’s opinion piece on the harm Gotham’s frequent chemical spills and attacks could be wreaking on the children growing up in proximity, pleading for help with petitions and lobbying to get actual research done on the issue. Tim flags that one. She has a good point, and he makes a mental note to send her piece on to Bruce and Lucius Fox to see if they can pull any strings. 

He hasn’t actually thought before about the possibility that even after standard clean-ups from Hazmat crews, there might be leftover contamination in the air, or more pressingly, absorbed into the old concrete walls of many of Gotham’s elementary school buildings and cheap apartments. 

Fear gas and joker venom attacks, among others, were bad when acute. But if some low-level exposure to, say, Scarecrow’s fear toxin, continued for _years_ in the air or through the water system...it wasn’t a stretch to imagine that something like that could, say...affect children’s neurotransmitter levels growing up, causing them have a higher risk of mental disorders by adulthood. 

_Yeah,_ he thinks. _Definitely talking to Bruce about that one. And Dr. Thompkins. And...maybe[USAMRIID,](https://www.usamriid.army.mil/aboutpage.htm) too. _

The very last email looks like any other ordinary submission, probably some random person’s opinion piece. Tim opens it just as Stardew Valley finally starts to load. He almost closes the web browser to come back to it later, when he suddenly catches the words _URGENT WARNING_ and _growing threat_ and _moss messages_ in the same few inches of screen space, and his brain grinds to a screeching halt. 

Tim jabs the full screen icon so fast he’s almost surprised his finger doesn’t crack the trackpad. 

_There is a threat heading for Gotham bigger than anything we’ve ever faced before,_ the piece begins, _and it’s going to take all of us—citizens, police, doctors, vigilantes, scientists, everyone—working together to stop it._ _Criminals are banding together. There are whispers in the underworld about a Plan, there are messages out of Arkham, there are alliances and cooperating parties between groups who never used to work together. Something big is coming, and everyone is too scared to get any word out, because they think they’ll be killed by the people behind it. But I’m not scared. I’m angry, and I love this city, and I believe that Gotham deserves a chance to stop being hit by attack after plot after scheme with no way to stop them. But my messages aren’t getting through to the police, the authorities. You may have noticed the messages in moss around the city, and heard on the news about all the officials that just got messages in their offices and homes. That was me. This scheme has to fail, and word has to get out._

_My name is Spoiler. I’m here to ask for your help._

Tim flies through the article, the attached photo of Spoiler herself, the accompanying files holding photo after photo of incriminating phone screens, text messages, shipments in the dark. Audio recordings of men speaking in hushed voices, loud voices, sober and drunk and high. Talking about the Joker, Scarecrow, dispersal, days of reckoning, the end of the system. 

He checks the posted article. It has over five hundred thousand hits and counting. Hundreds of comments, from citizens, promising help, thanking Spoiler, dismissing it as an elaborate hoax, criticizing it as fear-mongering and saying they know Batman has it handled. 

Batman doesn’t have it handled. Batman has only heard whispers, nothing concrete. He’s as in the dark as Tim has been, even with all his contacts. How can this Spoiler know so much? Where is she getting the information?

Is it true?

Tim takes a deep breath. He has to check this out before he takes it to Bruce—that is, if the Commissioner hasn’t already. But Tim’s phone is silent, so he figures Bruce is still asleep, and the GCPD is probably scrambling to deal with the PR nightmare. Gordon will have to wait until there’s actually a spare moment to slip away, because he can’t let the department know he has a direct line of communication with The Batman himself. That would bring the whole thing down on all their heads. 

Tim opens programs, swiping Stardew Valley closed with a little regret. He watches loading bars, types commands, leans forward, waiting, hoping against hope that the submitter has slipped up—just this once—come on—the spoiler email address is going to be a burner, useless to him, there has to be something _more—_

And on his third pass, he finds it. Buried in the data, traced back through linked accounts, he finds her youtube account. Everyone always forgets to log out of something that got connected once upon a time for convenience. And he spots a new email address. A school one. 

“Gotcha,” Tim whispers. 

It’s one of the public schools in the city, near Crime Alley. The high school Jason would have gone to if Bruce hadn’t taken him in. Tim slips into their systems like a ghost, searching, scrolling, pulling up the right ID. 

Stephanie Brown. A phone number. An address. A cell phone. He flicks over to an open google search tab, find out that her mom is a nurse at Gotham General and her dad has been in and out of jail for most of Stephanie’s life. Just arrested again last night, in fact. 

Tim has her location in minutes, and he snaps the laptop shut after committing her home address to memory and shifting the tracker over to his custom-made phone app on one of his burners. 

Tim’s going cape-hunting. 

It’s time to pay Spoiler a visit. Then he’ll see if it’s time to involve Batman, too. 

* * *

“Alfred,” Tim says, purposefully calm and cheerful as he sticks his head around the kitchen doorway. “I’m heading into the city for a few hours to take some photos. I’ll be back before dinner.”

“Have a hankering for candids, today, do you?” Alfred throws him a smile from where he stands stirring the enormous soup pot.

Tim grins. “You know it. I’m taking the train, and I’ll be careful, don’t worry.”

“I always do,” Alfred calls, as Tim sprints down the hallway to grab his bag. 

He doesn’t say goodbye to Bruce, who’s still in his room. The crack under the door is dark, and Tim doesn’t want to wake him up or invite any questioning. Jason is off at his favorite coffee shop, working on whatever story he’s been inspired to write this month. He took Cass with him to continue her education on various lattes. Tim bets Cass will throw on her enormous headphones and fall asleep on a seat next to Jason to the _Pride and Prejudice_ soundtrack—it’s been her new favorite since they watched it a couple nights ago. And Dick’s at work in Bludhaven, so Tim is safe from all prying eyes. For now. 

He shuts the front door behind him and takes off down the drive on his longboard, leaning into the curves and turning over possible scenarios in his head.

If Spoiler knows who they are. If she doesn’t. If she turns out to be a threat. If she’s already caught by bad guys. If she’s laid a trap. If she’s alone. If she’s hurt. If she’s bait being used by someone else. If he got the wrong girl after all. 

He thinks all the way down the road, onto the train, across the water, into the city. He thinks as he ducks into some of his old BatWatch clothes and does makeup behind a dumpster, as he pulls on a wig, as he sticks his collapsible bo staff in his hoodie pocket just in case. 

He disables the tracker in his wristband. He sends his mom a quick text— _Hey mom! I hope today is a little better. Jason is going to bring me over tomorrow with some books we think you might like. They letting you eat any jello yet?_ —fires off another one to Jason— _hey. hey J listen what if mothman rode a skateboard? would he like. do ollies in suburban cul-de-sacs but only be visible to skater teens like Jack Frost in ROTG??_ —and presses one of his spare black dominos across his face, flipping the hood of his jacket up to try to hide it as best he can.

Then Tim kicks off and rolls out of the alley, heading down the final block towards Spoiler, and hopefully some answers too. 

The run-down townhouse used to have a storm door, at one point, because the hinges are still there and one of them has a little bit of metal still attached, clinging to the joint with jagged edges. But the only door left now is the main one, sturdy and thick wood even if the paint has seen better days. It carries Tim’s knock clearly, and Tim settles into a ready stance while he waits, ever-so-slightly perched on the balls of his feet. Just in case. 

He’s calculating the third quickest way to vault down the four concrete steps when there’s a _snick_ of a deadbolt sliding out of place, and then the jiggle of a loose handle, and Tim peers out from under his hood as the door opens. 

Stephanie Brown stands there, looking not at all like her cheerful school ID photo. Her hair is up in a sloppy bun, she’s in the same kind of ripped jeans and t-shirt combo that teenage Bruce used to practically live all the time at home, and she’s sporting the raccoon eyes that Jason got when he fell asleep after the Twenty One Pilots concert still wearing his mascara and eyeliner. 

Tim also doesn’t miss the split lip, blackening eye, and way she stares at him warily through the gap, shifts her stance in a way that’ll let her bring a knee up faster than Tim could say _ouch_. 

“What do you want,” she says. 

Tim doesn’t speak for a moment. Then he lifts his hands slowly, grasps the edges of his hood, and lets it drop down onto his back while she takes in the domino and the batarang he slips halfway out of his pocket, cupped in one hand to keep it hidden from any nosy neighbors. 

“Spoiler,” he says, quietly, flatly, and Stephanie stiffens. “I think we need to talk.”

She narrows her eyes and doesn’t open the door any wider. “Robin?”

“In the flesh.”

“I figured you or Bats would be coming by. I’m sorry about your head,” she says. “Like, _really_ sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Tim says, with a wave of his hand. “You gave me a concussion, and it sucked, but I’m all healed up now. Can we take this inside?”

Stephanie frowns, and shakes her head. “I have no guarantee you didn’t just buy a domino, watch security cam footage from a nearby rooftop, pick up a lost Batarang, and come here to find out how much I know before you off me. Prove it’s you.”

Tim grins. “I knew you were smart. Uh, when we were on the rooftop, before you vibe checked me, I asked you if you couldn’t take a few minutes off to meet the neighbors, and you were like, no, and also see ya boy wonder, and then you went to jump off the roof and I panicked.”

“Okay,” Stephanie says. “Do you need to know it’s me, too?” 

“That’d be nice,” says Tim. 

“When you showed up on the roof, you tried to make your voice deeper than it is, and no offense, but it was really stupid. I had to try not to laugh in front of, like, my childhood hero.”

“Hey,” Tim says, but he’s not really offended. “My voice wasn’t that bad.”

“It was pretty silly,” Stephanie says. But she opens the door enough for him to step in, and shuts it quickly behind him. 

“Robin was your childhood hero?” Tim asks, as he follows Steph through the narrow entryway into a living room that looks like it hasn’t been updated since the 70s. “Not Batman? Usually it’s Batman. And, uh, you know I’m just the new guy. I’m not the original Robin, so…”

Steph turns around and stops, staring at Tim with an odd look. She brushes some loose hair strands behind one ear and stares him in the white eyes of the mask. 

“Not Robin,” she says. “BatWatch. You.”

“I—I was your hero?” Tim squeaks. He clears his throat, looks to the side for a moment, then back to Stephanie. “Why me? I mean. I was just a kid too.”

Stephanie flops onto the falling-apart couch, gesturing for him to join her. “Well it’s not like any of us _knew_ that, back then,” she says. “Everyone thought you were this crazy-cool, like, grown up spy person, running around in the shadows even better than Batman every night, watching the watchers and all that. You were super cool, and you helped so many people with all the updates and warnings, and I just...I wanted to be good like that, someday, you know? Run around and give all the little people some hope.” 

“Wow,” says Tim. “I didn’t—I didn’t ever know people felt that way about it. I was just trying to help.”

“I know. That’s kind of why everyone liked you so much, stupid.”

Tim laughs. 

“So,” Steph says, as she leans forward to snatch an ice pack from the coffee table and holds it up to her eye. “I’m guessing you’re here about the post?”

“Bingo.”

“Does the Bat know yet?”

“Not as far as I know. He was asleep when I left, and I don’t think the police have contacted him yet.”

“God. This is a mess,” Stephanie groans. “I knew it was gonna be _nuts_ —but I just—ugh. I didn’t really understand how fast word was going to spread, you know?”

“I’ve been a social media sensation since I was like, ten,” Tim says. “Can’t relate.” He gets a smack to the shoulder for that, but also a tired grin. 

“I promise it’s all true,” Stephanie says, then. “I've been gathering info for months, every time my dad has had other criminals over for poker night and stuff, and every time I've snuck around at night eavesdropping. I'm not just making it up. I have all the evidence here that I sent along with the post, plus more. I don’t know what the plan is, but I know some things about it. I didn’t want to put the some of the specifics out there where everyone could see and panic, though. I figured it should go to Batman and the police only.”

“Smart.” It makes sense, now, that she'd hear this stuff. Her dad is a criminal. He's not sure how Steph can be so good at listening in that no one notices the teenage girl eavesdropping on all their conversations, but hey. Tim spent years as BatWatch running around Gotham undetected before he even hit high school, so he can't really be too surprised. Everyone underestimates kids and teenagers. All the time. It's kind of annoying, actually, but it can be a nice advantage.

Stephanie starts ticking off fingers. “I know the Joker is the mastermind behind it. He’s been scheming for a while—all the other Rogues and gangs are either keeping their traps shut about it or joined up with him out of fear. Scarecrow is integral to the plan somehow; I don’t know if his gas _is_ the plan or if it’s just part of something bigger, but the Joker has him on a tight leash. I know it’s big enough that they expect it to take down infrastructure. Dunno if it’s in a “whoopsie, it’s destroyed now” way or in a “everyone will be so incapacitated they can’t keep the power grid and stuff running” way.”

“Either way, big and bad,” Tim summarizes.

“Right. And I know Joker’s working with some other group or groups. Not in Gotham, probably not even in the U.S. I just don’t know who. I’ve got some screenshots that confirm that, but again, I didn’t send them with the post.” 

“Do you think—” Tim starts, but he’s cut off by the sound of a thump from upstairs. He stiffens, nearly jumping up from the couch, and glares at Stephanie. “Do you have someone listening?”

Stephanie closes her eyes, and she suddenly looks ten years older and tired as hell. 

“Just...give me a minute,” she says. “It’s just my mom. I’ve got this. Can you, uh, hide behind the couch or something? I don’t want anyone to see that there’s a Bat in our living room. My mom wouldn’t rat you out normally, but...it’s not the time to take chances.” 

She stands up and starts heading for the stairs, but uneven footsteps keep thumping upstairs, and Stephanie’s mom makes it a few steps down the stairs by the time Stephanie stops at their base. 

“Mom,” Stephanie says. “Go back to bed.”

“I’m _hungry,”_ her mom says plaintively. 

“I’ll heat you up some soup. It’s okay.”

“No!” her mom shouts. “I’m hungry, Steph, and this is _my_ house. I’ll damn well come downstairs if I want to!” 

She takes a couple stumbling steps further, then eyes the railing and suddenly starts to climb right over it, still a good several feet up in the air. Steph sprints up the stairs and grabs her by an arm and the waist. 

“Mom! No!” She tugs hard, until her mom is safely back on the stairs with both feet and facing the second floor. “Come on. Let me help you back to bed. You can watch Reba while I heat up tomato soup. Okay? I promise I’ll bring it right up.”

“Reba?” 

“Yeah. I’ll get it cued up. Okay?”

“Okay,” her mom says, suddenly docile again. She lets Steph guide her back up the stairs, and Tim waits awkwardly behind the couch for a couple of minutes, tapping one foot and resisting the urge to power his phone back on to check his messages, wishing he had something to do. He takes the opportunity to stick a bug under the couch, right up against one of the wooden legs. Spoiler had just declared war, essentially, against at least half of Gotham’s criminal population, and who knows who else. Stephanie can be mad at him later if she needs to. He wants some way to know if something goes wrong over here. 

Steph comes back down and gestures for Tim to follow her into the cramped galley kitchen. “Sorry about that,” she says. “It’s one of mom’s days off, and dad just got arrested again last night, so she’s—she’s hitting everything harder than usual.”

“Drugs?” Tim says, no judgement in his voice. 

“Yeah.” 

They stand in silence for a minute while Stephanie cracks open a can of Campbell’s and sticks it in a bowl in the microwave. 

“Do you want to hold off on the rest until we can get Batman in on it, too?” Tim asks. “We can all meet up while we’re on patrol tonight, if you’re free.” 

“Sure,” Stephanie says. “Um. Are you sure...is he okay with...I mean. Is he really mad about the whole brick thing? Because I will apologize for that a million times if I need to. I know how bad it is to hit someone in the head. I’m so sorry. Does he want to like, kill me or something? Because I wouldn’t blame him. It’s just I really need to tell Batman what I know and I need to be alive to do that.” 

Tim laughs a little. “He’s...he’s not happy about it, and I think he’ll be wary of you for a while. But I talked with him about what happened that night, and that you panicked when you felt threatened, and how you hadn’t been even close to hurting me before that, and...well. He knows how brains can just go out the window sometimes. So he’s not really mad anymore. I think he’s kind of worried, more than anything, actually. He’s got a soft spot for kids.”

Stephanie rolls her eyes. “I know. Half the kids in Crime Alley never shut up about the times they’ve met Batman and gotten a burger or a blanket or a pat on the head or something. It’s adorable, but I dunno how Batman has any reputation left to speak of around here with how weak he is for everyone under the age of eighteen.” 

“I mean, it probably helps that he thrashes hardened criminals every night and scares the rest of the attempted criminals off with just a look.”

“Probably.” 

When the microwave beeps, Steph runs the bowl up to her mom, and then comes back down with a manilla envelope stuffed pretty full. 

“You’re Robin,” she says. “You know how to be sneaky. Can you get this to Batman for me, before tonight? I kind of want it out of here as soon as possible. I’ve...kept things safe, and I think I’ve covered my tracks well enough, but my dad has a lot of friends who wouldn’t think twice about breaking into a house and shanking a teenage girl if they think she’s the rat and find proof of that fact, so…”

“I’ve got it,” Tim says, taking the envelope and tucking it under his shirt, making sure it’s secure behind his belted pants. “And I’ll make sure Batman and I look it over before patrol tonight. How about we plan to meet where you and I first talked, and then go from there?”

“Sure,” Stephanie says. “I’ll be in my usual costume.”

“Same,” says Tim. He gestures at her face. “Do you, uh, want anything for...that? Need to get it checked?”

Stephanie’s hand drifts up to brush across her black eye and poke at her lip absently. 

“Nah,” she says. “I know somebody. It’s fine.”

“Well, so do I,” Tim says. “If you change your mind tonight, just tell us. Our person is available nights, too.”

“Thanks.”

“How’d it happen?” Tim asks. “The news said you were running around dropping off envelopes and flash drives at officials’ homes last night. The street kids didn’t see you fighting any crime.”

“It’s none of your business,” Stephanie says. “I’m fine. They’re not bad. Just get that to Batman and meet me on the roof tonight.”

“Okay!” Tim says quickly, and he heads for the door. “Sorry. I won’t pry. Just tell me to back off if I ever start poking at something you don’t want to talk about, and I’ll stop, okay? I promise. I hate people asking, too.”

“All right,” Steph says, but he can tell she’s wary. He knows that voice. He uses that voice. Less than he used to, but still. Sometimes. 

“See you tonight, Spoiler,” he says quietly, flipping her a quick two-finger salute as he hops down the stairs and drops his board onto the sidewalk. 

“See ya, Boy Wonder,” she replies, and then shuts the door with a firm _thunk_. 

Tim takes off down the sidewalk, booking it for the nearest train stop and waving to a couple little kids who yell at him from across the street that they like his board. 

He’s got to get this evidence to Batman, and apologize to at least four people for sneaking out to see a possible threat, and then eat something, because he’s starving, and _then_ get ready for patrol. 

He’s not looking forward to the _how could you take a risk like that, she’s an unknown, you turned off your tracker and no one even knew where you were_ lecture, but it will be worth it for this. Finally, they have a lead to follow about the unsettling quiet that’s been hanging heavy over the city this Summer. Batman can be cranky all he wants. Tim’s job is to be Robin, and that means doing the things Batman can’t do, like being cheerful and loud on patrol and wandering into Crime Alley in broad daylight to meet possible sources. 

_Worth it,_ Tim thinks, feeling the manilla envelope shift against his ribs, and he kicks his board up into his hand before hopping up the stairs to the train platform. _We’re gonna get to the bottom of this, before it takes down our city. And I’m gonna do whatever it takes to make that happen. Even if it means disobeying Batman sometimes. Even if it means taking risks._

He stares around the platform, taking in the mothers with kids, the elderly, the college students here and there, the ordinary citizens going about their lives. No special training. No way to defend themselves. But still living anyway, still stepping boldly through life, still looking at everything Gotham’s thrown their way and saying _You think you can keep us down? Think again, asshole,_ and living their lives in a state of stubborn tenacity. 

_Yeah,_ Tim thinks. _This city is a mess, there’s no denying that. But look at us. Look at all of us here._ He squares his shoulders and joins the small crowd surging forward to the edge of the platform as a train comes around the bend. 

_We’re not going down without a fight._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to let me know what you liked or any questions you have here in the comments and over on my tumblr, @goldkirk! I hope you're doing well today. Hydrate, eat something, take any meds you need, get some rest! You've got this. I know you're doing your best.


	15. are you dangerous, with your measure of proof?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce and Tim have a heart to heart, realizations are had, Steph is in QUITE A PICKLE, the family works together to be awesome, and Things Are Okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from "Dangerous" by Son Lux. 
> 
> This is nothing like what I thought the chapter would be but listen I'm just along for the ride and these characters are doing whatever they decide to, so I hope you enjoy!!! I sure did!
> 
>  **Content Warning:** Someone gets shot, there are mentions of an IV but no needle. There is a syringe, but again, no needle.

Tim steps across the cave floor to the desk where Bruce sits, updating files on the Batcomputer. 

“Hi Bruce!” Tim says. A little too chipper. _Oops._

Bruce’s hands abruptly stop typing, and he slowly spins away from the keyboard. 

“Tim,” he says, with a caution born from having Richard Grayson, rambunctious and cheerful to a fault, as his first child. 

Tim hides halfway behind the Manila envelope, peeking around one side as he clutches it in front of his face. “Okay, listen, I have some things to tell you, but first you need to promise not to get mad.” He’s trying really hard to keep the tendrils of actual fear from creeping into his voice, because he _knows_ Bruce has never hurt him, never even yelled, never given any real hint he’s even come close, and it would hurt Bruce to know Tim’s still wary, but…

Well. Tim’s only been with Bruce for the better part of two years, more or less. He’s spent a lifetime learning from upset adults. Just because Bruce hasn’t done it before, Tim still can’t quite convince his body and brain that his foster father won’t _ever_. 

Because Bruce is only human, right? He gets mad and frustrated like everyone else. And Tim isn’t perfect, he screws things up. (And let’s be real, here, he’s a hot mess in _general_ right now.) Bruce can’t keep control forever, right? Things add up. There’s got to be something that will push him over the edge. Tim—he knows Bruce doesn’t _want_ to get mad, doesn’t _want_ to hurt him, but neither did his mom and dad. So. 

He’s just. He’s got to stamp down the fear as much as he can, while just...staying a little bit more aware. It’s okay. 

Bruce looks Tim over for a moment, his expression some odd mix of amused, exasperated, and concerned, and then buries his face in his hands for exactly five seconds. Tim can _see_ his shoulders rise and fall slightly with each measured breath. 

“Okay,” Bruce says, finally. “Hit me.”

Tim holds out the Manila envelope without another word. 

Bruce takes it, pops the top flap open as he kicks back in the chair a little. He slides the contents out partway, glancing them over, then suddenly yanks them out and into his hands. Two flash drives are dropped onto the desk, and Bruce is flipping through pages with increasing speed, brow furrowing, lips parting. His speed-skimming stops partway through the stack of papers and clippings and jotted napkin notes, and he whips around to stare at Tim. 

“Where,” he says flatly, fingertips white where they press against the stack. The manilla envelope lies forgotten on the cave floor.

“So I met with Spoiler today,” Tim says. And Bruce is frozen like the statues they perch on every night, expression so tangled as he looks at Tim that Tim has no clue how to even begin unraveling its meaning. He forges on, speaking quickly, trying to forestall the inevitable explosion he knows is coming. “I was right. About everything. Well. Mostly everything. She is a girl, she’s in my grade. Her name is Stephanie Brown. I found her because—well—there was this submission on BatWatch, and I thought it was just another random opinion piece or crackpot thing but then I was reading it and I was like ‘Whoa, hang on, this is actually serious,’ and then I went in and started digging through metadata and—”

 _“Tim,”_ says Bruce. 

“Uh—right—I—” Tim stutters, his fingers white where he’s wringing them close against his stomach. “Sorry. Rambling. Um. So, uh, anyway, I found her email, eventually, for school, and then I dug up her records—I know, I’m sorry, I promise I wouldn’t break the law like this again unless it was serious, and it is, B, I mean you know—you saw the info she just passed us—and. Well. I found her. And I went to go see her today.”

“As Tim Drake?”

“No!” Tim exclaims “Of course not, Bruce! You think I’d actually endanger us like that?” He shakes his head. “No way. I went in one of my old disguises, and added a domino. Let her know I was Robin. We verified each others’ identities, and then she let me in and we talked for a while. She’s...pretty cool. I think we can trust her. And anyway, she asked me to get all this stuff back to you, because she doesn’t want it in the house in case anyone comes looking now that her dad’s in jail since someone ratted his group out to the police last night, and she’s not super interested in getting, y’know, like...murdered or whatever. For revenge. That would suck.” 

“You went and saw her alone?” 

Tim nods, unable to meet Bruce’s intense gaze. His eyes stay glued to the envelope on the floor as he speaks. “Yeah. I know it was a risk, but she’s...like a hurt animal, or something, right now, Bruce. She’s gonna spook. Really easily. When we were on the roof, she—remember how I told you I thought she panicked, when you showed up and started coming towards us, and that was why she hit me?”

Bruce nods. 

“I think—well. I guess...it’s not anything I can verify, right now but—when we talked today, she had a black eye and a split lip, and I don’t know if there was anything else under her long sleeves and stuff, but they looked pretty fresh. I don’t think she’s...good with angry people. Or bigger people. Or like...you. Yet. She’s afraid you’re really mad at her for giving me a concussion and stuff. She’s really sorry about that.”

“Well,” Bruce says, with forced calm. “I am upset that she hurt you. But I’m not going to hurt her back for that. She could have done much worse than she did. She gets the benefit of the doubt, for now. But not that much. You should never have gone alone like that, Tim. What if something had happened? Did anyone even know where you were?”

“I told Alfred I was going to the city,” Tim says. 

“Did he know where?”

Tim shakes his head. “I just said I was gonna take photos. I did! I took some! I just...also did this, too. I figured out who she was and just...went for it. It was too important to wait. I had to make sure it was really her, and her info was good. I didn’t want to involve anyone else till I knew.”

“Tim. What if something had happened?” Bruce says again. 

“I can handle myself.”

“Yes,” Bruce agrees, setting the stack down a little too carefully, and pushing himself up out of the chair to step in front of Tim. “You’re well-trained, and you’re resourceful. But even I get caught off guard. What if something had happened to you while you were there? What if she was hurt, or it was a trap, and you couldn’t manage everything at once? What if you were hurt, or you couldn’t get to your phone?”

Tim is trying so hard to not take a couple of steps backwards, right now, to not give into the fear that’s trying to take over because Bruce is safety but Bruce is also a man, also bigger than him, also upset, and not yelling, yet, but— _but._

“I know, it was a calculated risk,” Tim says, “but it did work out, and—”

“Your _life,”_ Bruce says, stern and just this side of frustrated, “is _not an acceptable risk,_ Timothy.” He catches Tim’s face in between his hands, normally gentle grip firm as iron, making sure Tim’s staring him right in the eyes. 

Tim shuts up. 

“You spent a lot of time with no supervision,” Bruce says. “I am aware you have habits from that period of time that are going to take years to unlearn. I am aware you got used to not having anyone watching your back, or waiting up for you, or looking out for your safety, and also that you are extremely capable of taking care of yourself. I am _aware,”_ he adds, “that you are a strategist and come up with contingency plans for your contingency plans, and I am sure that when you went after Spoiler today, you had escape routes in your head and responses thought out for a lot of potential situations. I know you’re careful, and I know you have the skills to back that up.”

Tim senses a _but_.

“But,” Bruce says, more quietly. “You have backup now. We worry about you, and we want you safe. You have a family who _is_ watching and waiting up for you. And more importantly, you and I, Tim, we’re partners. We’re supposed to have each other’s backs. You went out to meet spoiler today to verify information, make sure it was worth bringing to my attention. But you put yourself in danger to do that, and you did so without giving anyone else a heads up so they could keep an eye on you.”

“It was less dangerous than most of what I did as BatWatch,” Tim protests. “I wasn’t even dressed as myself. I looked like a Crime Alley kid, no one was going to suspect a thing. And if someone tried to attack Spoiler, I could’ve handled that. Or I’d have called for help at that point.”

“Did you have your tracker?”

Tim winces. “I turned it off while I met with her, so you wouldn’t...see where I was and freak out, if you happened to glance at the app. I could field your phone call and…”

“And what, Tim.”

“And…” Tim swallows. “And make up a. A, uh.”

“A lie,” Bruce finishes for him, but without any heat in his voice.

“An excuse,” Tim corrects, weakly.

Bruce closes his eyes, and his hands slip down to Tim’s shoulders.

“Tim,” he says, again, frustration bleeding through into his tone. He pauses for a moment, then crouches down, slowly, his knees popping with the movement, until he’s on his knees in front of Tim, looking up into his eyes. “Sweetheart. I really need you to understand this, all right? I need you to _listen._ I really need you to believe me when I say what I am about to say.”

Tim nods, stiff under Bruce’s hands. _What is Bruce trying to get at? I get it. I screwed up, and he’s not happy about it. Is this—is he going to bench me from Robin? Does he not trust me anymore? I can’t blame him. I literally ran off. And I admitted I was going to lie to him. I haven’t—_

Tim’s heart stutters for a moment. 

_I haven’t really lied to him since...before I admitted I was BatWatch. I…_

“You are one of the four most precious things in my entire life,” Bruce says, quietly, as dead serious as Tim has ever heard him. “You are so important to me. I could lose all the wealth, my reputation, my home, everything, and as long as I don’t lose my family, do you know what? I wouldn’t care. I could lose Batman. The cape—I could lose the thing that has driven and motivated me to keep living in my lowest times, the thing that gave me purpose when I was lost in a _very_ dark world, and it doesn’t _matter_ . I don’t need the cape. I need my children, Tim. You are so much more important than any money, or mission, or anything else at all. Nothing. _Nothing_ is ever going to be worth your life to me, do you understand? Gotham is not worth losing you. I already wish I didn’t put you all in danger like this, but I know you’ll all go out without me if I try to stop you. So I allow this, I help you, so that you have someone to keep you safe. Your suits are lighter, more flexible, because I am your armor out there. Do you understand, Tim?”

And. Tim kind of does, he hears what Bruce is saying, but it’s a little bit hard to take in. He loves Bruce. He loves the Waynes. And he’s comfortable here, now, most of the time—it feels like—like a _real_ home, and he knows they love him too, and sometimes he can even remember to feel confident about that. But hearing Bruce saying things like this—it’s _hard_ . It’s really hard to—to process, he guesses, and he’s kind of reeling, just sort of a little bit kinda a _LOT,_ and Bruce must take his silence as the tangled struggle it is, because he sighs for a second, and goes on. 

“I would die for you in less than a second, if it meant you’d live,” Bruce says, _“will_ die for you, if it ever comes to that.”

“Bruce,” Tim says, strained and an octave higher than usual. 

“I don’t want any of us to die,” Bruce says, shifting one finger up to Tim’s lips, then back down to grip his shoulder again. “But if it comes down to it, I’ll give myself up for you. Because I’m your _father,_ I have the honor of being the father, for however long I’m given, of you four incredible, beautiful, brilliant children, and my life is not for myself. I gave myself to Gotham, once, and I thought that was what I was here to do. I thought I was going to fight, and fight, and fight my way through the dark parts of this place until one day it put me in a coffin in the ground, and just hoped that I would make enough of a difference before that day that people could live in a little less fear. But then Dick came into my life, and when you have a child—” Bruce pauses for a moment, to regain his composure. He takes a deep breath, and meets Tim’s eyes again. 

“When you gain a child,” Bruce goes on, “from that moment, your life isn’t about you anymore. It’s about this human, here, that is yours. This little human being who is depending on you to keep them safe, and loved, and warm, and who you have fallen in love with more than you imagined you could love anything in this world. And you aren’t as important anymore. Your main goal, suddenly, is to see this child through to adulthood successfully and safely. You want to watch them grow, and have a good life. You want them to make it. You don’t understand this yet, Tim, because you’re too young, but my life is about you now. Everything, all of this, all the work I do day and night, it’s for all of you. And priority number one is to keep you all _safe.”_

“I’m sorry,” Tim says, because it’s the safe thing to say. He doesn’t know what Bruce wants from him. All he knows is that he messed up, but what he did worked, and Bruce is telling him all this and Tim doesn’t know what Bruce wants—

“No, Tim, you don’t need to apologize,” Bruce says. His thumbs rub Tim’s shoulders slowly. “I’m just trying to get you to understand, here, that I would rather you tell me a thousand things that will worry me, or that I might not like, rather than lie to me about something. If you sneak out to a party and get drunk and want to come home, I don’t want you to be afraid to call me. I will always come get you, and I will never be angry with you for asking for help when you mess up. Everyone messes up. I know you’re not going to be perfect. You’re allowed to make mistakes, and bad calls, and flawed decisions. Even I still do, sometimes. You’re only human, Tim. I want you to be safe. So next time,” he says, with a small smile, “because we both know that in this city, there will be some kind of next time, _please,_ Tim,” he begs, face more earnest than Tim has seen in months. “Please tell me. I’ll help you. I’d rather you come to me with a dead-end lead than go off on your own to check it and not come back.”

“Okay,” Tim whispers. “I’m sorry, Bruce. I just—I saw who she was, and the article, and I was putting pieces together, and I’m so used to—I know we’ve been doing this for a while, and I should know to come to you first, but I thought it wouldn’t hurt for me to just go check it out first, like investigative journalism, and I didn’t mean to worry you, I’m _sorry.”_

“It’s okay,” says Bruce. He pulls Tim into a hug. “I know it’s hard. You’re doing a really good job learning to lean on us more, I promise. We’re all proud of you. You just can’t go putting yourself in extra danger like that anymore, now that you’ve got us looking after you.”

“I’ll do better next time,” Tim mumbles into Bruce’s neck. “I swear.” He suddenly stiffens. “Uh,” he says. “Is this...a bad time to mention that when I was leaving, we agreed she would meet us on the rooftop from before, tonight? Is that okay?”

Bruce shoots to his feet, alarm crashing over his face, and he keeps one hand on Tim’s shoulder while the other scrabbles for his phone where he left it sitting on the desk. 

“She wants to meet us tonight?” he asks, incredulously. “In the open? In Gotham?”

Tim nods. “Is there something wrong with that?”

Bruce holds up a finger, skimming the article on BatWatch at lightning speed, then glancing over a few of the documents Spoiler had sent in the envelope. He twists his wrist around so Tim can see the screen, and points at one particular paragraph where Spoiler had talked about the fact that several of the major crime families of the city were working in tandem with the plan, helping push shipments through with a little extra bureaucratic grease and a lot of payoffs so questions weren’t being asked. 

“This girl,” Bruce says, “just painted a target on herself the size of the moon. She didn’t spill all the information she did, but she’s spilled enough. You’ve never seen the criminal underworld of Gotham work together for something, yet, Tim. As of this morning, there’s going to be a bounty on Spoiler’s head—dead or alive—of at least half a million dollars. Every mob family, Rogue, and corrupt public official is going to have their men after her. It’s going to be a very short and ugly chase if we don’t get to her first.”

“Oh my god,” Tim says, feeling sick. “Bruce, I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize—how did neither of us think that—she even said she was worried about people who worked with her dad coming to the house, maybe, to check for anyone connected with the people arrested, trying to find a rat, and I didn’t even think that anyone else would look too—”

“It’s not your fault,” Bruce says, “you don’t know to plan for what you don’t know happens. You still have a lot to learn. But we really have to find her. I’m calling Dick and Jason now. Go get Cass from the ballroom, and then both of you suit up. We have to get to Gotham as fast as we can.” He turns to look at Tim, and the confident determination in his eyes is all Batman, ready for a challenge. 

“Don’t worry,” he reassures. “Spoiler is not going to be taken by anyone tonight, not while we’re around to stop it. We’ll get her, Tim, I promise.”

“Her mom,” Tim blurts. “She’s a nurse, she’s, um, an addict. She was really drugged up when I was there today. I don’t think she’ll be able to run—but then, no one knows who Spoiler is except me, I guess, and you, so maybe her mom is safe for now?”

“Probably,” Bruce agrees. “We can check that later tonight. For now, our main priority is getting Spoiler back here and out of harm’s way. We’ll make sure her mom is safe after that.”

“Okay,” says Tim. “Right. Okay. Yeah.”

“Go get Cass,” Bruce prompts him, again, and Tim snaps out of it, spinning for the stairs as he feels his body flooding with adrenaline and familliar, focused calm.

“Yes,” Tim calls back over his shoulder. “We’ll be right back. I’ll fill her in on our way down.”

* * *

Stephanie latches the clasps on her backpack as her head bobs a little to the playlist she’s got on shuffle. It’s a lot of her old favorites, since she wanted stuff that’ll help her relax, after the night and day she’s had. But even so...she had to quickly skip _Eyes Ope_ n by Taylor Swift when it came up a few songs ago, because the lyrics hit a little too close for home, considering her current situation. She’s sticking with the much safer Black Eyed Peas right now. It’s hard to be too stressed when _Boom Boom Pow_ is playing.

She shuts her bedroom door behind her as silently as possible and shoves the last of her hair up into the oversized beanie she’s wearing as she walks down the hallway. She cracks her mom’s bedroom door open just far enough to verify that yes, she’s still spaced out in her bed, yes, the covers are still rising and falling with her breathing, yes, the TV is still on and the phone is by her mom’s hand just in case, and the water bottle is still on the nightstand, and then Stephanie clicks the door back shut and turns away. 

Her mom should be okay for now. And it’s not like she’ll notice if Steph is there or not for a good while, anyway. She’d be amazed if her mom even knows what day it is right now. It hadn’t been a good night, after her mom found out her husband had been arrested again, for a worse crime this time, and Steph came home late without a good explanation for where she’d even been.

Steph hopes the foundation and concealer are enough to keep people from noticing the shiner and lip long enough for her to get to the park bathroom and change into her costume. There’s no way she can do it at home anymore. She’s not going to rat her mom and herself out to any of her dad’s friends who might be watching. 

So Stephanie clicks her music off, leaves her headphones in, and sticks her nose in a graphic novel as she exits the house, making sure the back door is locked behind her. To anyone watching, she’s a good stupid little teenage girl, heading off to the coffee shop or library or something, just in her own little world. 

Ooh, and maybe even trying to cope with the tragic loss of daddy dearest, _again,_ right when he’d been home for the longest period of time in years. Steph can put on an impressive act when she wants to. She could stage a tiny crying jag curled up on a park bench, maybe, to add to the drama. Just in case. 

Yeah, she thinks. Why not. It sure can’t hurt, and crying is a good stress reliever anyway. She can kill two birds with one stone. She’s got time before she’s supposed to finally meet with the Bats. 

Once she makes it to the park a couple blocks away, Steph finds a good bench, in view of a lot of hiding spots—she should know—and lets _loose_. Two concerned mothers and a nice elderly couple stop to ask if she’s okay, and as Steph wails her miserable tale to their sympathetic but clearly overwhelmed ears, she smiles a little on the inside, both at her own performance and the fact that people really are a lot kinder than the news tends to give them credit for.

Then it’s time to change, and after shaking off one last concerned jogger who has a very cute terrier and a _very_ good Mom Voice that makes something deep inside Steph ache, just a little, Steph starts to walk, and in less than a minute she’s vanished from the park’s path like she was never there. 

She sprints towards the nearest alley once she’s in her all-black base layer and ski mask, using piles of trash and old tossed-out appliances to stay out of view for the most part, and stashes her bag underneath a dumpster in the alley as far back as she can. Then she lashes the belts and purple cloak on as quickly as possible, and scrambles her way up the jagged old bricks on the corner of the nearest building. 

It’s time to find the Bats and get down to business.

* * *

Stephanie makes it to the roof as the last remnants of sunset are finally slipping into the black, and she’s only _just_ come to a halt out of her tuck and roll when she hears the too-familiar sound of a safety being clicked undone. She ducks and dives on sheer Crime-Alley-kid instinct, and the bullet misses her hood by _inches_. 

Steph gets out one half-scream before there’s a fist burying itself into her stomach, another _something_ slamming into her lower back, and _god,_ that was probably a kidney or something, oh god that hurts, she can’t _breathe_ —Steph’s knee slams upward with extreme prejudice as she tries not to fold fully in half, rewarding her with a pained shout from someone, and then she’s stumbling down and back and away from three clown-masked men as fast as she can, and she’s _stupid,_ she’s so, _so_ stupid. 

_Shit._ _Shit, shit, and goddamn_ ** _fuck,_** _I’m literally gonna die. Right now._

There’s a reason she hasn’t gone around stopping crimes the way the Bats do, other than that one time. 

It’s a bad, bad idea for Spoiler to go toe to toe with anyone yet—she’s been using YouTube and Rodney Yee videos to train, yeah, but the one and _only_ time she went up against someone bigger than her on the streets, she paid for it for weeks. Just ask Leslie about that one. Steph knows she can’t hold her own in a fair fight against _one_ trained attacker yet. She doesn’t have the experience. 

She’s _strong_ , but she’s not used to fighting _back_. 

Steph’s life till this point has mostly involved her being a “grin and take it and come up smiling” kind of girl, and she learned years ago to not lick her wounds till she was in private. People smell weakness. And Steph is not weak.

She is, however, very, very outmatched. She’s already in the corner of the roof, and two of the men have guns, and she is so screwed. 

“Parlay?” she tries, a vague, panicked thought of Elizabeth Swann flitting through her mind. 

“Shut up,” growls Joker goon #1, standing in the middle of the trio, and he raises his gun. 

Her options are: a) let him shoot her, b) dive out of the way but straight into one of the other men, and also get shot, she guesses, or c) just hurl herself off the edge of the roof and become a pancake on the pavement several stories down. 

Steph crouches on the corner ledge, in that half-second that stretches out in slow motion somehow, and all she can do is think _but_ _I never even got to try that stupid grain bowl stuff,_ stupidly, before the man’s finger tugs the trigger and the gun fires. 

Everything is black. 

At first Steph thinks, so this is what death is like, I guess, but then she realizes that she’s still standing, and the black is actually moving now, shifting in the darkness, and wait, hang on—

“Put down your weapons,” a voice growls, and that is Batman in front of her. The cape drops down to settle back on his shoulders, and she can just barely peek around one of his sides to see the men frozen, just as shocked as she is. 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Batman says, “but I’m only offering once. Put down the weapons, and get off this roof. Go tell your boss that Spoiler is under Batman’s protection. Or we can do this the hard way.” 

Steph holds her breath. 

“Get him,” snarls one of the masked men,” and Batman crouches. 

“Hard way it is,” he growls, and then dives forward, sweeping all three men back from where Stephanie stands and launching into a brawl. 

“Get her out of here,” he commands, and Stephanie is still staring, watching him fight all three until Flamebird whips out from behind the water tank on the other side of the roof and joins in, back to Bat with Batman, somehow not getting tangled in the cape. 

_They have got to have done some kind of magic to manage that,_ she’s thinking, and suddenly there are hands slipping around her and she screams, she bucks like a bull, desperate to hurl herself away, anywhere, off the roof if that’s what it takes, until a voice finally registers and she hears “Spoiler! Calm down, hey, it’s Nightwing, I’m trying to help! I’ve got you. I’m here to help. Whoa!” 

She processes the words in the exact same moment as she actually manages to duck out of his grip and her foot slips off the ledge, and she overbalances. Her arms windmill as every part of her body except one foot leans out over the sidewalk below, and she only has time to think _aw, shit,_ before Nightwing gets a hand fisted in the back of her cloak and yanks her safely back into his grip, away from the ledge. 

“I’ve got you,” he repeats, as she pants and tries to wrap her head around this whole crazy night. It’s probably only been a few minutes since she made it to the roof, now, even though it feels like hours. 

Then there’s another shout, from the neighboring roof, and a gun fires at thim, missing by only a couple of feet. Nightwing manhandles her behind a concrete block a few feet back from the edge, and shoves a grapple gun into her hands. 

“If I’m out of commission, and you’re falling, use it as best you can,” he says, and then spins around. “Get on,” he instructs. “Piggyback. Wrap your arms and legs around me like a monkey and don’t loosen up.”

She has a million questions. She asks none of them. Batman and Flamebird appear to be bantering while in a whirlwind dervish of fighting, still, something about ballpark chili dog price extortion? She has no idea. There are more men than there were a few minutes ago. She doesn’t want to know whose henchmen they are. She just wants to not die. 

Steph climbs onto Nightwing, and he kneels into a crouch, aims himself in the direction not currently occupied by people trying to kill or kidnap her. 

_“Tight,”_ he says, and then takes three running steps and launches into open space. 

Except there are thugs this direction too, and they’re somewhat better shots. While at the peak of the jump, a bullet clips Steph’s shoulder and another one hits near her hip, she _feels_ the impact against bone, _holy shit how is that something you can feel,_ and she muffles a bitten-off scream between Nightwing’s shoulder blades and forces her muscles to stay locked while her eyes start spilling tears without even asking her permission first. She can’t let go now. She can’t she can’t she _can’t_ oh _god_ it hurts so much, she never knew something could hurt like this, how does it burn _so much?_

“Hold on,” Nightwing says, strained, and they hit the rooftop fast and hard. He pivots as quickly as he can with the extra passenger and shifted center of gravity, and another shot nearly misses his head before he can sprint towards the catty-corner edge of the roof. “Sorry,” he grits out, and Steph just tries to hang on for dear life. 

“I’ve got you!” a new voice calls, and Steph twists her neck just far enough to see a blur of red, green, and yellow land a mid-air somersault into the middle of the crowd of men on their roof before Robin throws a smoke pellet and sparks some much-appreciated chaos. 

“Thanks, baby bird!” Nightwing shouts, and they’re leaping off the edge of the roof, this time into a swing from the grapple line, and down onto the streets. 

“We’re going straight for the Batmobile,” Nightwing says, as he books it across a crosswalk, which is just. He is a _vigilante_ and people are trying to _kill them_ and he still follows the law like a good little citizen and doesn’t even jaywalk?

“Hey,” Nightwing says, then, a little amusement coloring his voice even while he pants. “I may break the law in the name of justice, but cars aren’t good at seeing people even _in_ crosswalks. I don’t feel like getting run over, okay.” 

Oops. She must have said that out loud. Damn. What’s wrong with her?

“You’re having kind of a rough night,” Nightwing says. “Don’t worry about it. We’ve all been there at one time or another. I’d rather you be talking than passed out. Just hang on, okay? We’re going to get you somewhere safe.” 

There’s another figure running next to them, that Steph didn’t notice till just now. She doesn’t know how many seconds the person has been there. She stiffens, about to shriek, through the haze of pain and panic with whatever small amount of air she has left, but the person twists and holds one finger to their lips under the domino mask and smiles at her. 

“Friend,” the girl says, slowly, as they run. 

“She’s one of us,” Nightwing pants. “Don’t worry. You’re safer with her than with Batman, probably. And here we are.”

The next several seconds are a whiteout of pain and a lot more crying than Stephanie wants to admit to, as she’s untangled from her death grip on Nightwing and slotted into the Batmobile’s passenger seat with as much gentle care as possible. Which doesn’t mean much with bullet wounds in the spots she’s got them, but like. She appreciates the effort, at least. Then her vision blacks out completely for what may be several seconds or an eternity as Nightwing presses pressure bandages down _hard._ She doesn’t even have the breath to scream.

Once her vision comes back, more or less, if a little hazier than before, she locks eyes—or, masks, she guesses—with Nightwing as the black-caped girl slips silently into the backseat. 

_Don’t leave me,_ Steph thinks she begs. 

Nightwing sort of rests his hand on her forehead for a moment, through her ski mask, but she still feels the comfort and doesn’t want it to stop. “I have to run,” he says, apologetic. “I’m going to draw some of them off. They didn’t see us duck in here, but they’re close behind. Blackbird is going to stay with you, okay? You’re safe with her. Batman is on his way. He’s going to get you help. I promise.”

“I’m sorry,” Steph gasps, and wow, her ski mask is just. Absolutely soaked with tears, and snot, and ew, sweat. So much sweat. Blackbird is tugging the neck part up and out of where Steph keeps it tucked into her undershirt, and there are suddenly fingers steady against her neck. 

“It’s okay,” Nightwing says, hand squeezing her uninjured arm for a moment. “You did something very brave, yesterday, and you’ve been really brave tonight. We’ve got your back. Just hang on for us, okay? You don’t have anything to apologize for.”

“Still s’ry,” Steph slurs, and Nightwing just laughs for a second. 

“Okay,” he says. “We’ll work on that. Keep breathing. Stay awake. I’ll see you soon.”

Then the door shuts with a click and pneumatic hiss, and he darts around behind the car and is gone. 

Steph tips her head back against the seat as Blackbird holds two fingers steady against Steph’s pulse and her other hand lets Stephanie clutch as hard as she needs to. 

_It’s going to be okay,_ Steph thinks, over and over again, as she feels wetness spreading through her clothes, as she gasps her way through waves of pain, as she feels over and over like she can’t hold on for another moment through the dim blurriness fighting to take over her brain. _It’s going to be okay, it’s going to be fine, It’s going to be okay._

She holds onto the mantra like it’s the only thing keeping her from losing it. Which it is. But no one else has to know that. 

Then the driver side door opens, and Robin literally tumbles over the seat into the back of the car, and Steph jerks so hard in surprise that her body screams in one giant lightning bolt of nerve signals firing, and she can’t help the cry that rips out of her. It’s not a cool movie yell. It’s an overwhelmed, terrified, super-duper-in-pain, really wet and stuffy teenage girl shriek, and she doesn’t have enough energy to even be embarrassed about it right now. 

“Sorry!” Robin says. “I’m so sorry.” 

“Buckle,” Batman growls, and Robin and Blackbird obey without hesitation. Batman shuts and locks his door and immediately leans over, stripping off one gauntlet and glove to press his fingers against the spot Blackbird’s hand just vacated. He’s silent for a few moments, probably counting, Steph imagines, hazily.

“Hn,” Batman says. His fingers leave her neck, and Steph can’t help but feel the loss, for some stupid reason. But then Batman’s jabbing a button on the console and the Batmobile roars to life, and as he floors the gas, peeling out of the corner they’ve been hidden in, his hand is suddenly wrapped around hers. It’s big, no surprise there, and her hand is basically swamped, but he’s the exact mix of strong and gentle that Steph’s only felt once or twice, and if she wasn’t already crying, she sure would be now. 

“You’re going to be okay,” he reassures her, sounding much less like he gargled gravel all of a sudden. “We’re going somewhere safe.”

She can’t help but believe him. He’s _Batman_. He keeps candy in his belt for the little kids in Crime Alley, and a stash of teddy bears and blankets and shit in his car for when bad things happen and people need comfort, and he helps lost kids find their parents and hungry kids get midnight burgers, sometimes, and when Steph was younger he carried her away from a man who’d cornered her in a doorway when she ran away from her dad’s criminal friends one night straight into a pervert. He probably doesn’t even remember that. But Steph does. 

She remembers how safe she felt in his strong arms, perched on his hip like she was still three years younger than she actually was at the time, and how he didn’t let her go till she said he could. How she buried her fist in his cape and cowl and he didn’t complain about the tug. How he took her all the way home, to the window she directed him to, and made sure she was tucked into bed before he left. How he gave her one of those teddy bears, how she’s kept it safe and hidden this whole time, how he slipped her a mini Batarang before he left and told her how to use it most efficiently if anyone ever tried to pin her down like that again. 

Steph still carries it in her pocket every day, when she’s not in her Spoiler costume. She’s used it exactly twice. It’s probably saved her life.

So she trusts him. She trusts Batman, she believes Batman, she’s been shot twice tonight and apparently a bunch of people are trying to kill her, and Stephanie Brown is scared out of her mind, and in more pain than she’s ever come close to feeling before, but damn if she doesn’t trust Batman.

“Okay,” Steph whispers, and lets her eyes close as the streetlights and neon storefronts whip past in blurs. “Thank you,” she grits out, trying not to cry out again as the Batmobile hits one of the _godawful_ potholes that always seem to open up every week on Market Street, “for all this.”

“Of course,” Batman says. “You’re not alone, Spoiler. We’ve got you.” 

She takes several seconds to breathe her way harshly through another assault of pain from her hip, and burning throbs from her shoulder, and then turns her head a little to look over at Batman’s profile, hunched over the steering wheel and carefully guiding the car-tank-thing at insane speeds she doesn’t want to think about. 

“Where are we going?” she asks. 

“The Batcave,” Robin answers, and she can practically hear the grin in his voice.

“Oh snap,” she gasps, in both pain and excitement. _“Shit.”_

“Language,” Batman says, so instantly that it’s got to be habit. He glances over for a moment, eyes unreadable under the cowl but with a little bit of a wry twist to his mouth. “Sorry,” he says. “When you’re in this kind of pain, you get a pass to say whatever you need to. Carry on.”

“Well gosh diddly darn dee,” Steph gasps out, managing a grin under the ski mask. “Didn’t know you had such delicate sensibilities, with all the law-breaking and crime-fighting.”

Batman sighs. _Actually sighs._ At _her._

“You, too, huh,” he says. And she actually gets a _smile._ She must be dying for real. “Flamebird is going to love you. And you’re not dying. Now shush for a minute, all right? Save your energy. We’re still several minutes out. Can’t give you any painkillers till we’re out of the car.”

“Kay,” Steph wheezes, and closes her eyes. She breathes through the pain, breathes through the questions, and thoughts, and sheer insanity that tonight has turned into, and thinks, simply, _It’s going to be okay. Batman says it’s going to be okay._

So it’s going to be okay. 

She holds onto that as they pull into a waterfall, into darkness, into a cave suddenly filled with light. She holds onto it as the Batmobile slides to a smooth stop, and holds onto it as Batman leaps out of the car and yanks her door open seconds later, slipping her into his arms as gently as he can. 

“Gonna be okay,” she gasps, through the fire radiating through her body, as he carries her, cap flapping behind him as he practically jogs towards what is clearly an honest-to-god med-bay, like Star Trek or something. 

“You are,” he agrees, voice confident and steady in a way she clings to as well. 

She’s deposited gently onto a gurney, and there’s an elderly man there, slipping off her gloves and cutting gently through her sleeves, and Batman is next to her, still, one hand holding her uninjured one and the other holding out what she recognizes as surgical antiseptic to the other man, and then another figure steps into view while tugging on latex gloves in a very familiar way, and Steph thinks, _oh, damnit. It just had to be tonight._

Dr. Thompkins steps up to the gurney, hip-checking Batman a few inches to his right, and gently rolls up the ski mask until it’s popping off of Stephanie’s face, and all her tangled, sweaty curly mess of hair is tumbling out of it and piling into the purple hood where it lies on the gurney’s sheets. 

“Steph,” Dr. Thompkins sighs, taking a moment to cup Steph’s cheek in one hand. “I hoped it wasn’t you, like I suspected, but I can’t really say I’m surprised. It’s okay, honey. I’m gonna take care of you. You’ve been so brave. Take a rest, now, we’ll take it from here.”

“Leslie,” Steph says, as her tears roll again. “‘M sorry. Please don’t be mad.”

“Oh, I’m furious,” Dr. Thompkins says cheerfully, as Batman deftly velcros a blood pressure cuff and tapes a pulse oximeter onto her uninjured arm and finger, and twists a syringe into place at the end of the IV line he got into her arm at some point in the past several seconds. “But I’m so relieved that you’re safe and more okay than not that I’m gonna let it slide for now. You’re a good girl, Stephie, and you’ll be just fine. Batman is going to put you to sleep, now, so I can work on fixing you up. You’ll feel a lot better when you wake up in a while. Just try to relax. And breathe.”

“Okay,” Stephanie says, and she watches as Batman slowly depresses the syringe’s plunger, watches the liquid flow through the line into her arm, and it’s only a few more careful, measured breaths before she feels herself slipping fast. 

She panics, then, suddenly afraid, terrified she’s not going to wake up. 

Batman’s hand is back, brushing through the sweaty hair just above her ear, once, twice, three times, and Steph is still fighting, even as everything is fading out. 

“You can let go,” she hears him say, gently as Dr. Thompkin’s commanding voice meanders past somewhere in the background. “We’ve got you. I promise it’s okay to let go.”

And Batman _promised_. Batman promised it’s okay, so. Steph does. She lets go of the last little struggle, the last bit of terror that she’s clinging to by a thread, and Batman gives her one more little _It’s okay_ in a whisper drifting through the deepening void, and then she’s finally, finally _out_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! Did you like it? Did I make a plot error somewhere? Do you think Dr. Thompkins is secretly a big softie that isn't even gonna yell at Steph at all? Who knows! 
> 
> I'm so proud of you all for making it through another day. Rest! Hydrate! Eat and take any meds you need! You've got this <3


	16. it's not so bad to be a Batkid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steph wakes up, conversations are had, memories are dragged up, and Bruce loves his kids.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi, sorry for the wait, i've been so sleep deprived my brain didn't even care about writing and my mom's been sick and my nephew had surgery and another nephew keeps needing to stay with us on and off and it's all be NUTS but here you GO I hope you enjoy it!!!
> 
> **Content Warning: Mentions of child abuse, non-graphic. Discussion of substance abuse (drugs). Mentions of an IV, but no needles or descriptions of medical procedures.**
> 
> Chapter title is a rip-off of the line from "Welcome to the Family" by Watsky where he sings "It's not so bad to be a Watskyyyyyyy" because I thought of it while driving at 5:20ish in the morning and it was hilarious to early morning me.

Tim is curled up like a pretzel in his loveseat blanket nest when Stephanie finally starts to wake up. 

He’s spent the past several hours refusing Bruce and Leslie’s attempts to get him to go sleep in his own bed for a bit. He _knows_ they’ll come get him when she wakes up. That’s not the point. He’s got a responsibility to Spoiler, and he’s not leaving her alone till he knows for sure she’s okay.

“Tim,” Dr. Thompkins had tried, a couple hours earlier, when Tim blinked himself awake enough to pop his neck and scoot onto his other shoulder, still pressed up tightly against Nova’s warm, solid side. “Kiddo. Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in your bed? I promise I’m not leaving till she wakes up either.”

“No,” said Tim for the hundredth time that morning, and that was that. 

So Tim is still here when Stephanie shifts, as she’s done several times throughout the night and morning. She’s floated up to some sort of consciousness a few times already, but not very lucid and not for very long. Alfred assured Tim that was normal.

But this time, she shifts again, sniffs deeply, and Tim pops up like a jack-in-the-box, shaking off blankets as he sees her eyes open more fully than they have since Bruce knocked her out on the gurney downstairs. 

“Dr. Thompkins,” he hisses, chucking a thermometer case in her direction. It bounces off of her head, and she snorts awake suddenly in the middle of a quiet snore. Years of practice have her assessing the situation in less than a second, and she’s up and leaning over Stephanie before Tim even manages to slide off the loveseat. 

“Hey honey,” Dr. Thompkins says, catching one of Stephanie’s hands in her own and smiling. “You awake for real this time?”

Stephanie frowns up at her, a little bit more slowly than usual. “Ow,” she says, finally. 

“I know. You are a very, _very_ lucky little shit, do you know that?” Dr. Thompkins turns to check on the IV line, saline bag nearly empty and antibiotics still part-full, and reaches for the box of gloves. 

_“Leslie,”_ Stephanie grumbles. She tugs on the hand still wrapped around hers, and Dr. Thompkins pauses with her other hand still buried in the cardboard box to lock eyes with Steph.

“What is it, kiddo?”

“No drugs?” Stephanie asks, and Tim hears the slightly desperate undercurrent in her voice. 

“No drugs. This is all you,” Leslie replies, low and soothing. She takes a moment to brush some of Stephanie’s hair behind her ear. “Promise. Just IV tylenol. And now that you’re more awake, we can switch you to the pills. I didn’t forget, honey.”

“Okay,” Stephanie says, visibly relaxing into the pillow. “Good.” Then she starts to look around, and the frown returns. “Where am I?”

“You,” Dr. Thompkins says, all business, snapping on gloves and pulling the stethoscope from around her neck, “are somewhere safe, in a bed, where I expect you to _stay_ aside from bathroom trips and assisted walks until I tell you you can get up and at ‘em.”

“Who are _you?”_ Stephanie asks, ignoring Leslie’s half-answer, and locking eyes directly with Tim.

“Uh,” he says. “Hi. I’m Robin. Nice to meet you for real?”

“Robin, really?” Steph asks, trying to hide a wince as Dr. Thompkins helps her to sit, propped up against several pillows. “Man, you look diff— _is that a dog?”_

Tim grins. “This is Nova. Say hi, Nova.” Nova stands up on the loveseat and wags her tail, whuffing quietly.

“Oh my god,” Steph breathes. 

“You want to pet her?”

Steph sticks her good arm out immediately. “Please.” 

Tim nudges Nova over to the side of the bed, and Steph immediately starts scratching the spot just behind Nova’s ears that makes the dog melt into a pile of happy goo. 

“She’s so _soft,”_ Steph coos.

“I _know.”_ Tim wonders if this is what it feels like to be a proud parent or something, as he watches Steph babble softly at Nova like a fool. He can’t judge, he’s done the same thing a million times. 

“Open up,” Leslie says, and Steph obediently lets her shove a thermometer in her mouth while she continues to pet Nova. Tim keeps one hand on Nova’s side, gently rubbing back and forth. 

“So,” Tim says, glancing up to meet Stephanie’s eyes. “I feel like we didn’t really get to do this properly, what with the brick and the super secret meeting and all, so...hi. I’m Tim. I have a dog named Nova, I’m Robin most nights now, and I really hate cilantro and want to be a photographer when I grow up.”

Steph glares impatiently at the thermometer for a couple of seconds until it finally beeps and Leslie takes it back with a glance and a thumbs up. 

“Hi Tim,” Steph says, then, with a bright grin. “I’m Stephanie Brown. I love makeup and the debate club, I appreciate the delightful freshness of cilantro, you heathen, and I’ve spent the last few months running around as Spoiler on and off trying to foil my dad’s stupid schemes and whoever is trying to take down the entire city, because that would be bad.”

Tim snorts. 

“Bruce Wayne,” a new voice says from over by the doorway. “I enjoy spelunking, own Wayne Enterprises, have a bad habit of leaving my toothpaste uncapped in the mornings, and spend most of my nights fighting crime in Gotham in a Bat costume. It’s nice to meet you, Stephanie.”

Steph’s head whips around almost too fast to see, and her jaw actually drops. She and Bruce stare at each other for a few seconds. Steph’s hand sits frozen on Nova’s head.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Leslie mutters. 

“You,” Steph finally chokes out.

“Me,” Bruce says, with a Mona Lisa smile. 

_“Bruce,”_ Tim grumbles. 

“Sorry, Tim,” Bruce says. “I couldn’t resist.” He enters the room, then, and walks over to tug Tim into a hug. “Good morning, sweetheart.” 

_“YOU?!”_ Stephanie nearly shrieks, then, finally finding her voice again. “But—how—I mean, the funding checks out, everyone knows Batman’s either gotta be rich or have one _hell_ of a sugar daddy, if he’s not actually a secret government project, but like—what the _fuck_ —seriously? _Bruce Wayne?_ You’re Batman?”

“In the flesh. Also, language, kiddo. Alfred has a strict policy about cussing in the manor. And within his earshot in general.”

Tim nods. “Swear jar and the patented look of disappointment. He’s got a whole system about which words cost how much to say, and honestly, the math involved _alone_ is enough to get most of us to knock it off.”

Stephanie stares at Bruce, who’s now sitting on the loveseat, one hand still wrapped around Tim, who he’s pulled down with him and tucked against his side. “Did you just...call me kiddo? Like a sitcom dad? Did you just _dad_ me?”

“He does that a lot,” says Tim. “It’s kind of his thing.”

“You,” Stephanie says, then. “That means you’re—what, Tim _Drake? That_ Tim Drake?”

“Yep. The one and only.”

Steph glares at the clock on the wall across from her for a few moments. Then she suddenly turns and scowls at Leslie, who until this moment has been trying to appear busy scribbling things down on a clipboard. 

“And you knew?” 

Leslie hums.

“How long?” Stephanie demands. “The whole time? I know you help out criminals and stuff, but Batman? We’re in his house?”

“I helped raise that crazy boy when he was still short enough to have to climb on counters if he wanted to reach the cookie jar,” Leslie says. “Of course I knew. It’s a bit hard to miss, if you know what you’re looking for. Also, he came straight to me when he got his first GSW and couldn’t make it back to the cave safely, and I know _exactly_ where that little scar on his chin came from.”

Bruce looks a little chagrined. “Okay, no need for story time,” he says quickly. “Stephanie, I’m assuming you have questions.”

“Yeah,” Steph says. “Where’s my mom?” 

“Safe at home,” Bruce says. “We’ve got eyes on your house, but nothing has given us reason to worry so far. As of right now, it doesn’t appear that anyone has connected Spoiler to the Browns, or to Cluemaster.” 

“But what if they do?” Stephanie demands. “What happens to her?”

“There are people ready to get her out, if it comes to that.” Bruce holds up a hand. “No, I can’t tell you who. Just trust me when I say that they can get her out in seconds, if necessary. We’re not going to let her be hurt or taken.”

“Is she okay right now?” Steph asks. 

“She’s...still very out of it,” Bruce says carefully. “But she’s in the same condition as she was when you left yesterday, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Okay,” Steph sighs. “Okay. She won’t even realize I’m technically missing for a couple of days, probably. So we’re good until then. Although I think we technically broke a law or two when you guys treated me without like, getting parental consent. Not that she could really give it right now, but. Still. I don’t know if that will hold up in a court.” 

Tim watches her hands twist and untwist the sheets in her lap, and realizes suddenly that he’s doing the same with his hoodie strings. He forces himself to drop them and shove his hands in his pocket instead, fingers lacing together to keep themselves still. Then he tugs them back out again, and pats the side of his leg twice. Nova walks back over, and Tim leans down to press a kiss to the top of her head before slowly running his fingers through the soft fur on her back again. 

“About that,” says Bruce. “Leslie and I have been talking, while you’ve been asleep. We have some questions for you, and a proposal of sorts.”

Tim does not miss the way that Stephanie stiffens a little. He’s sure Bruce doesn’t either. 

“Okay,” Steph says, slowly. 

“Steph, you can lay off the coiled rattlesnake act,” Leslie interrupts. “No one’s going to do anything right now without your permission. We’ve still got some time. We just need to go over some options with you.”

“And talk shop,” adds Bruce. “There are some things I need to know about your motives, still. I don’t think you’d sell us out, and I believe your heart’s in the right place—I would never have revealed my identity to you if I didn’t. But there are holes in our understanding of the situation, and we need to close them as soon as possible.”

“Then ask,” says Steph, making an attempt to cross her arms, before wincing and letting them drop back to the bed. Leslie silently hands her a freshly-cracked ice pack, and Steph doesn’t hesitate to press it against her bandaged shoulder.

“First off,” Leslie says, “I think we should go over your injuries. You got grazed on the shoulder by a bullet, which needed a few stitches. Have to be careful with it for a while, until the inflammation goes down some and the tissue begins to heal, all right? I mean it.”

“Yes, got it,” Steph says. “I don’t want to move it right now anyway.”

“I don’t want you moving it too much even after it feels better,” Leslie says, in a warning tone. “It’s going to feel more healed than you should treat it. That wound is in a prime spot for ripping stitches out if you’re not careful. I will put you in a sling if I need to.”

“Under _stood.”_

“Your pelvis,” Dr. Thompkins continues, “is another story. You are _extremely_ lucky, Steph. It skimmed across the outside of the bone instead of the inside, so instead of a lot of internal damage, I just had to repair some arteries and patch up tissue. It’s still going to hurt like the dickens, but structurally, you’re all right. No organs were nicked, and the bone didn’t fracture. We’ve given you some blood, and are giving you fluids and precautionary antibiotics for a while longer. Standard procedure.”

“Wow,” Steph says. “That’s honestly better than I was expecting. Not even the edge of the bone? Nothing got fractured?”

“Nothing. We x-rayed several angles just to be sure. But you’ve still got a lot of damage, mostly from the exit wound, so take it easy, okay? You need to be careful when you move around and sit. You’ve got stitches on the side and back down there. And absolutely _no_ running around the city for at least several weeks until these heal _all the way_. I am not going to tolerate that kind of stupidity from you any more than I do from this crazy bunch of vigilantes.”

“Got it,” Steph says. “And—did you give me local? Because I feel like it should be hurting way more than it does.”

“I gave you a small nerve block last night that’s probably just starting to wear off right about now. You tell me as soon as the pain is getting much worse, and we’ll start figuring out what painkiller schedule you’ll need to be on for the next few days.”

“Okay. Thanks. And...I’m sorry for getting myself shot, for what it’s worth. I didn’t mean for things to get this intense.”

“Duly noted,” Leslie says, with a smile. She brushes some of Steph’s hair up and back with her fingers, and tugs one of the ever-present scrunchies out from under her sleeve to pull Steph’s hair into a messy high bun. “In the future, try to avoid being near any guns at all, hm?”

“Duly noted,” Steph echoes. “But no promises.”

“Let’s table the gun talk for the moment,” Bruce says. “Stephanie. Do you want me to call you Stephanie, or Steph, or something else? I want you to be as comfortable as possible while you’re with us.”

“Uh,” says Steph. “Steph is fine. That’s what almost everyone calls me.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Steph is good.”

“Okay,” Bruce says, with a nod. “Steph it is. This is Wayne Manor, and the Batcave is nearby. When you’re up to it, we’ll give you the grand tour, okay? You’re a guest here, not a prisoner. If you want to go somewhere else other than this room, ask and one of us will help you.”

“Thanks,” Steph says. 

“Dr. Thompkins won’t be here much after today,” Bruce goes on. “But I’m here most of the time when I’m not working at Wayne Enterprises, and Alfred is here almost 24/7. You’ll meet him shortly, although you might remember him from the cave last night. He was down there with us. I’ve got four kids, who you’ve probably heard of in the media—Dick, Jason, Tim, and most recently, Cass. The youngest three still live here, so you’ll see them around. You’ve already met Tim, more than once, right?” Bruce asks, letting go of Tim long enough to ruffle his already-messy bedhead for a few seconds as Tim halfheartedly attempts to duck away. 

“Yeah,” says Steph, “although he looked really different. You sure this is your _actual_ face?” She shoots Tim a grin. 

Tim shrugs. “You didn’t think I’d run around at night in _this_ city with a _camera_ and not disguise myself all these years, did you?”

“I didn’t really think about it,” Steph admits. “You were kind of like, a mythological figure, dude. I mean, until you became Robin. But that just added a whole nother level of identity secrets. It’s not like anyone ever got eyes on you as BatWatch.”

“Oh man, _lots_ of people did, though,” Tim says, grinning now. “That’s the crazy thing. I was reporting on live-action events all the time! I stayed back most of the time, sure, but sometimes I’d have to be in a crowd, or huddle in a shelter or something. Tons of people saw me, and my camera too. It’s just they never suspected a kid, and I looked different every few weeks. Makeup and wigs are _magic.”_

“You’re nuts,” Stephanie says, with respect. “I can’t believe you got away with it for so long without getting caught. Or like, killed. Sometimes you were _right there.”_

“Me either,” Bruce sighs. “But Tim is very good at taking care of himself. Like you.”

Steph looks down. 

“Not like _that,_ not for like, vigilante stuff,” she says. “Just with life things. And I mean. It’s not like I got a choice. No one else is gonna do it.”

“Your parents are supposed to,” Bruce says, voice gentle. 

“My dad is a piece of shit and can rot in Blackgate for all I care,” Steph snaps. “I don’t need him. He’s a terrible dad and a worse human. The only things I’ve ever learned from _the_ _Cluemaster_ is to hate certain games and how _not_ to be a person.”

“Ah,” says Bruce. _“That’s_ how you hear so many plans. He’s the Cluemaster.”

Steph stares. “You didn’t know that?”

“You never actually said that’s who your dad is,” Tim protests. 

“I didn’t? I thought I mentioned that at some point. I’m not stupid enough to write it on any of the evidence or notes, but didn’t I say something yesterday to you?”

Tim shakes his head. 

“Huh,” Steph says. “Well. Yeah. That’s dear old dad. He gets out of jail _just_ long enough to throw himself back in. I’m just his kid who’s always been too dumb to stay away whenever he actually _is_ home for a while with all his ‘friends,’ making plans. I just...got sick of not doing anything about it, after hearing them get tangled up with whatever the hell the Joker is going to do _now.”_

“Language,” Bruce says again. Then he laughs. “Sorry. Habit. Anyway, Steph...I understand that your father has been pretty terrible about being a parent. Or much of a responsible adult, at all. But I can tell you love your mom. Does she ever try to take care of you? She seems like a good woman.”

Steph shrugs and twists the blankets up some more, glancing over at Leslie once. 

“She is,” Steph says. “She’s just...not meant for this kind of stuff. She can’t handle it. So she takes care of her patients, and comes home, and does drugs, and then sobers up long enough to take care of her patients again. She never _asked_ to be stuck with me. And she did try, when I was little. She _did._ She was really cool. We went to the zoo whenever there was a little extra money, and the museums, and she always took me to the library on Thursdays and stuff. She tried. It’s just...gotten to be too much. And she can’t take care of her patients _and_ me, too. I take care of myself just fine. They need her more than I do. I get by. And Leslie keeps an eye out for me.”

“Yeah, but I’m not your parent, honey,” Leslie says. “I can’t be responsible for you 24/7. It’s not safe, with the job I have, and with the people who come to the clinic. I know we’ve been dancing around boundaries when it comes to your home situation for a long time. But things are changing, Steph. You can’t go home like this if no one is going to be able to help you.”

“I can take care of myself,” Stephanie repeats. “It’s _fine_. Just let me heal enough to get around a bit again, and then I can get out of your hair,” she says, turning to Bruce now. “I don’t want to put you in more danger, either. Even if no one knows Spoiler is me, yet.”

“Stephanie,” Bruce says, then. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of him, and makes sure she’s looking him in the eyes. “You can’t go back home without a parent who’s going to take care of you. I know you do a good job of taking care of yourself, but you’re injured right now, and _you’re_ in danger, and I’ll bet that with your dad in jail again, money’s going to be tighter than usual.”

“I _can,”_ Steph says, defensive. “It’ll be okay. I planned it out. I don’t have a ton, but I’ve been saving almost everything I make at my job and hiding it away. I can keep my mom and me fed well enough as long as she works enough hours at the hospital to keep paying rent. I wasn’t going to get my dad arrested till I was sure we’d be okay without his extra income. I’m not stupid.”

“You’re the one who called in the tip, then?” Bruce asks. 

“Yeah. It was time. They’ve been building up to the robbery lately—that was going to pay them nicely, and get more funding for whatever the big plan is. Cluemaster was like, proving himself again to the big bads, or something.”

“I see,” says Bruce. “And you stopped that. As far as I know, all the men they caught are still in jail, pending trials. You did a good job preventing a big crime.”

“Thanks,” Stephanie says. She’s refusing to look at him. 

“You don’t seem all that happy about it,” Bruce prods. 

“I’m glad he’s gone,” Steph says. “But it made mom worse. She flipped out.”

Bruce and Leslie exchange a look, then. Bruce leans in a little further, and Leslie’s eyes don’t leave Steph’s face. Tim suddenly feels like he maybe doesn’t want to hear much more of this, but his window for leaving is well past. So he just busies himself scratching Nova’s ears and neck, glancing up every now and then at Steph out of the corner of his eyes. 

“Flipped out?” Bruce asks. 

Steph’s lips tighten. 

“Steph,” Leslie says, unwavering. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Steph snarls. “She was counting on his money. She doesn’t like him either. It was just a shock, okay, she didn’t expect the money to be suddenly not on the table. But I’ve got it covered. She’s okay with it for now, I explained later after she calmed down.”

“Stephanie,” Bruce says again, gentle but with a tone that allows no argument. “How did she flip out?” 

_Did your father ever hit you today, Tim? Did your mother?_

Tim blinks away the faint memory. He knows what Bruce is asking, what Leslie suspects, what Tim himself wondered a little when he went to Steph’s house yesterday. He wishes it was Steph’s dad, or a criminal. He knows she didn’t fight any of them the night she got her father arrested. His sources said she’d run around the city dropping off messages and then swung by the precinct once before heading straight home. He _knows_.

“She was just really stressed out,” Steph says, still not making eye contact. Her hand has drifted up to press hard against her cheek, on the side of her face where the black eye and cut lip still sit in plain view. Tim doesn’t think she’s aware of it. “She doesn’t—it’s not like she meant it. It was just a bad night. I’ve gotten worse from kids at school. It’s not like she does this all the time, she was just overwhelmed.”

_They never hit me badly. Just a slap or two, you know?_

Bruce sighs, very quietly, and Tim’s hands have frozen, still against Nova’s sides. She stretches up to nose his face gently. 

“I mean, I came home, like, excited and everything, because my plan had worked and I was like, _FINALLY_ we’re free of him, at least for a little while again, and I dropped enough evidence with the police about their plans about the robbery to probably get him locked away for a good long time. Mom had just heard from the cops, and just gotten off one of her long 24-hour shifts, which always suck, and I was like ‘They just told me, too! Isn’t it great that now you don’t have to worry about when he’s here or not, and and all the other men being around, and we can just relax now and like, feel like this our house again, and you can decorate how you want and get that seashell table runner that you wanted and everything?’ but I didn’t read the room, because I was tired, and kind of on an adrenaline high or something. And I should have _known_ she’d be, like, having a lot of tangled feelings. She was already sleep deprived, and he had talked a ton about how much money we were going to have, and then this happened. I was stupid. I stressed her out. It’s not her fault.” 

_I shouldn’t have given him attitude! I know better!_  
_They’re...they’re good people. It’s not their fault._  
_I love them. And I’m afraid of them._

His mother’s hand making contact with his cheek, and Tim stumbling into the counter, stunned. His father smashing his camera lens, his kindle. Tim’s face hitting the cabinet. The dismissal of the ER staff because it wasn’t too bad, their looks of pity because he was damaged goods. Cold concrete. _I said I was sorry._

The sounds of the room fade into the background, and Tim is so aware, too aware of his eyes, of his frozen breath, of Nova just inches from his face, of his rigid body. 

_My fault, not theirs,_ his brain chants. _I knew they were already upset, I knew it wasn’t a good time, I should have backed off, I shouldn’t have given attitude._

Tim hears Steph. He hears himself in Steph. He doesn’t like it.

She’s had it _way_ worse, in so many ways. Tim knows that. And this is about _her,_ not him, he’s not even—she’s been _shot,_ and her mom hit her, and Tim’s already _had_ these realizations about his past, why is this happening now? Today is about Steph, not Tim, she needs _help,_ but he’s not feeling better—this isn’t lifting fast—and Tim is just so _frozen_ and stuck right now, and—he doesn’t want to take away from Steph, especially not in _this_ kind of important moment, but he just—he needs—

Nova paws firmly at his knee now, insistent. Tim gives in. 

_“Bruce,”_ Tim gets out, strangled and a little desperate, a lot quiet. 

Bruce straightens instantly, turns to Tim, arm already reaching out before he even looks. 

“Oh, shit,” he breathes. 

“Language,” mutters Steph, from over on the bed, and Tim is distantly aware of Leslie letting out a very small snort as she gently whacks Steph’s good hand. 

“Tim,” Bruce says, lifting up both hands now to catch Tim’s face and turn it towards him. “Hey, sweetheart. I’m so sorry. I should have realized this conversation might be hard for you. I’m sorry.”

Tim just shakes his head. Not Bruce’s fault. Just Tim’s stupid brain. Just stupid brains being stupid. He just needs to—to get a grip. Bruce has to get back to Steph, he needs to tell her what he told Tim, they need her to start understanding about parents, she has to understand that she shouldn’t be hurt even once—

“Timmy,” Bruce says, in the voice he uses sometimes, between Batman and Bruce. The one that no Robin can ever manage to ignore, but doesn’t quite give away the secret of the Bat. “Breathe.”

Tim shudders in a breath. And another. Bruce is shifting around a little, brow furrowed, trying to catch Tim’s eyes. Tim forces himself to move his stiff, clumsy hands and burrow them into Nova’s fur, while she hops up to place both front legs on his lap, trying to insist he lie down. 

He meets Bruce’s eyes. “Sorry,” Tim says, sounding shockingly close to tears. “I don’t know why—I didn’t mean—” He gestures over at Stephanie. “She needs—”

“You need me, right now,” Bruce says, low and firm. “Tim. There is nothing wrong with needing me. I promised you back then, and I’m telling you again now, that I’m going to come help any time you call.” He brushes his thumbs over Tim’s cheeks a couple times. “You’re allowed to need me, even if other people do too. I’m an adult, sweetheart. I can prioritize tasks and people. Let me worry about that.” 

Tim is struggling with himself, wanting to accept while still feeling like he shouldn’t have asked, should have waited, should just go off and calm down by himself, but he keeps breathing and nods anyway. 

Bruce knows. He always knows. 

“I’m proud of you, buddy,” he murmurs, and tucks Tim under his chin while carefully not knocking Nova aside. “Do you know what you need?”

Tim shakes his head. Just—

“You,” he says. He’s not even crying. He’s not panicking, or dissociating, or anything. Not really. But he’s—he feels like—like running away, and being dangerous, he feels like he needs to take risks, get hurt. He’s upset and calm and afraid and reckless, all at once, and it’s overwhelming, and he doesn’t know what he needs or how to even begin to put that into words. 

He’s fifteen, here with Bruce. He’s thirteen, locked out of the house, stinging face, hiding in his room. He’s both. But he knows he’s not. And Steph is on the bed, watching with big eyes as Robin, BatWatch, her old hero, apparently, is having some kind of freak out and needing a hug from Batman. 

Some hero Tim is. 

“I’ve got you,” Bruce says, for the millionth time, and Tim can’t help the choked noise that half-escapes his throat. “Shhhh. I’ve got you. We’ll figure it out like we always do.”

Nova doesn’t stop watching Tim, and noses his ribs a couple more times. 

“Do you want to lie down with Nova?” Bruce asks. “And do you want Jason, or Dick?”

Tim thinks for a moment. 

_Yes,_ he signs, then finger spells _both,_ and then _okay_ with a questioning face as he looks up at Bruce. 

“Of course that’s okay,” Bruce says. He doesn’t let go of Tim, keeps him held close. “Cass, love,” he says, and Tim is barely even surprised when Cass suddenly flips down from the open rafters high above them. He’s just surprised Bruce knew she was there, with how silent Cass is. This part of the manor is more lodge-like, and all the kids know that it’s prime real estate for high-up naps and reading nooks and eavesdropping on conversations. Kind of like an indoor tree fort. 

Bruce’s fault, for giving them the skills and making them a little too comfortable with heights. He can’t complain, and if he really had a problem with it, he could always just have real ceilings installed. 

“Can you get Jason and Dick, for us, princess?” Bruce asks. “Tell them it’s for Tim.”

Cass nods, sharp and birdlike, and is already perched on her toes. Ready for flight. Bring brothers, she signs, ending with the same motion as on the day when she and Tim first met, and Tim is so, so grateful for his family. He’s so lucky to have them. He wants Steph to have this, to have people who care and will look out for her, because coming from not having that, and knowing what it can be like when things are done well, when people actually care and don’t _stop_ —Tim can’t imagine going back to his life before, to what Steph’s life is now, it _hurts,_ and he’s squeezing his eyes shut and almost missing Cass slipping out of the room’s door as silent as a ghost. 

“Do you want to stay here, and keep listening?” Bruce asks. “Or do you want to go somewhere else?”

Tim shrugs. Bruce hums into his hair, and waits patiently. They just breathe together for a bit, Bruce holding Tim together, Tim holding nova and trying to cling to whatever feelings are trying to take over at the moment. 

“Um,” Steph says, a little quiet, a little tentative. “Is he—are you okay? Um, Tim?”

Tim shoots her a thumbs up, even while he grips Bruce’s arm hard almost enough to bruise with his other hand. 

“He’ll be fine,” Bruce reassures her. “Before Tim came to live with me, his parents were...it’s Tim’s story to tell you, if he wants, but some of the things you and I were talking about brought up some memories for him, I think, and it happens sometimes. He’ll be okay in a while. That’s part of what Nova is here for.”

“I’m sorry,” Steph says. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

“It’s not your fault,” Bruce says. “Not even a little bit. It’s normal for us. Tim’ll be fine, and you didn’t do anything wrong. All of us in the family deal with this kind of thing happening, we know what to do.”

Steph frowns, but in a thinking way, not upset like she was earlier. “Like PTSD?” she asks. 

Bruce hums again, as Tim stiffens for a moment before forcing his muscles to relax again. 

“That’s...the most accurate diagnosis, yes,” Bruce says. “We’re not big on labels, though, because it takes time for a lot of us to accept that we’re dealing with something, and giving it a name can help, but it can also make it feel big and overwhelming. Tim’s still early on in healing. So for now, we just tackle his problems and take it day by day. But yes, I personally have a PTSD diagnosis in my file.” Bruce smiles at her. “But I’ve also had many, many years now of learning to handle it, and healing my brain as much as I can. So it’s not much of a bother at this point. I’m more or less...in remission you could say. It takes big things for me to have any real episode.”

“Oh,” says Steph. 

“Tim,” Bruce asks gently. “Are you going to be okay if Steph and Leslie and I keep talking while you’re in here, say, on the rug with your brothers?”

“Yeah,” Tim says. “Sorry. Can you—”

“What, sweetheart?” 

“When you’re done, can you stay? With me? Just for a bit.”

“Tim,” Bruce says, giving him a big squeeze. “Of course.”

That is, of course, the exact moment that Dick and Jason practically kick open the door, dropping a pile of pillows and blankets and water bottles on the middle of the giant rug on their way over to scoop Tim out of Bruce’s arms. Cass shadows them in, throws Tim a quick I love you, and then vanishes back up into the rafters via the wardrobe and an impressive vertical leap.

“Timmers,” Jason says. “Baby bird. We leave you alone for like, one morning, what happened?” 

“Knock it off, little wing,” Dick says, with a fake scowl. He arranges the blankets into a better nest as Jason gets himself and Tim comfortable. “He’s probably not ready to talk about it yet.”

“It’s okay,” Tim sighs, as Nova hops in to join them and settles firmly down across him with her full weight. “Just memories and stuff.”

“And stuff,” Jason parrots, nodding sagely. “So eloquent. You always are the smart one, Tim.”

“Shut up,” Tim says, but Jason does manage to get a small grin. 

“Budge over,” Dick commands, shifting Tim and Nova a little with his foot before curling up on the floor as the final member of the pile. “Okay, Dad,” he says to Bruce, as he wraps himself like an octopus around Tim and Jason. “We’re good, we’ve got it from here. Carry on.”

“Okay,” Bruce laughs. “Let me know if you need me again.”

“Tim,” Steph says. 

“Hm?”

“Your family? Is so weird. But in a good way.”

“Believe me,” Tim says, tiredly, even while he presses further into the blanket nest and throws a gentle elbow into Jason’s ribs when his brother tries to force a water bottle into his face. “I know. They’re the best. And I’m sorry for freaking out on you.”

“It’s literally not a problem,” Steph says.

“Back to what you were saying, honey,” Leslie says, then, scooting her recliner forward a little. “It’s really important that you understand that your mom should never, ever have hit you. Not gently, not hard, not invisibly, and not enough to leave you with marks like this.”

“I didn’t say she hit me,” Steph protests. 

“Okay,” Leslie says. “Then I’ll ask. Stephanie Renee Brown. Did your mother hit you two nights ago?”

Steph glares.

“Steph,” Leslie says, more softly. “We want to help you. But we can’t unless you’re honest with us.”

After a few more seconds, Steph finally looks away and down. She’s got the blankets so tangled up in her hands now they’re almost in knots. 

“Yes,” she mutters. “She hit me. But it wasn’t a big deal.”

“Thank you,” says Leslie. 

Bruce leans forward again, placing one hand on the edge of the bed, not touching Stephanie, but there. Close. 

“I’m sorry that she did that,” he says, gentle and calm. “It hurts getting hit by anyone. It’s even more upsetting when it comes from someone you love. I wish you hadn’t had to go through that.”

“Yeah, well,” Steph says. “It’s whatever. A lot of kids have it way worse. My mom’s a good person. She’d never hurt me on purpose if she wasn’t...like that, with the drugs and stuff.”

Tim makes a very small noise, and Jason starts quickly and quietly talking into his ear while Dick runs fingers through Tim’s hair, trying to smooth it out where it’s rumpled from sleep. Bruce can’t make out what’s being said from where he sits, but Tim doesn’t seem to get any more upset, so he focuses back on Stephanie. 

“Stephanie,” Bruce says. “I’m going to lay the situation out, okay? So we can make sure all of us are on the right page. You’re injured, and it’s going to take a while for you to recover fully. You need some assistance for the first part of that time. Leslie has been keeping tabs on you, but she can’t take you in, for obvious reasons. Your father is currently in police custody, on an indefinite basis—”

“Good riddance,” Stephanie says, hotly. 

“—and your mother is at home, and still making it to her shifts for work, but abusing drugs most of the time she’s not there. Correct?”

“Yeah.”

“You know that we can’t let you go back there right now,” he says gently. “Even ignoring the Spoiler aspect, and assuming all of that will be fine. You can’t go back to your house with your mom like that. She can’t take care of you like this.”

“I don’t have anywhere else to go,” Steph protests. “I’m fifteen. I really can take care of myself, I swear. Like I said. Just let me heal up enough to get around okay and then it’ll work.”

“Stephanie,” Leslie says. “Listen to Mr. Wayne.”

“But—”

“Just listen.” Leslie grabs a tumbler of water, and hands it to Stephanie with a look allowing no protest. “Drink that and hear him out.”

While Stephanie takes slow sips of the water, Bruce starts talking again. “I know you want to go home, and I know you love your mother, Steph. And I want you to be able to go back, and be safe with her. But right now your mom is in a very bad place. It’s hard to see, sometimes, when you’re living with someone like that day in and day out, but your mom could die from this. And at the very least, it’s not good for her health or her happiness to be using drugs this way, and it’s putting her job at risk, too. But most importantly, she’s neglecting you, and as your parent—at this point, your only available parent—it’s her main job to take care of you, her child. She can’t right now.”

Stephanie looks even more mutinous than before. Bruce plunges ahead.

“Dr. Thompkins and I can’t hide the situation for long, Steph,” he says. “With school starting soon, and the police likely to be coming by to interview both you and your mother about whether you knew anything about what Cluemaster was up to, someone’s going to notice things aren’t right. Social services are going to end up involved, and we can either do that on purpose and with control of the situation or we can wait for someone else to call them and have no idea what will happen then. I know you don’t know me, aside from as Batman and what you’ve seen in the media. But I’m a current foster parent in the state system, and I have the resources and room to take you in, if you want. It doesn’t have to be permanent, like with my adoption of Dick, Jason, and Cass, or long-term fostering like with Tim. I want you to be able to live with your mom again, safely, with both of you healthy and happy. I’d like to help make that happen. But before you can go back to her, she has to get clean and prove that she’ll take care of you, and you have to heal from these injuries. If I contact the worker that deals with my family in CPP, and talk to her with Dr. Thompkins, explaining the situation, between the agency already knowing me and my ability to pull strings, I believe we can make sure that you stay with me and my family while your mom goes through a rehab program—fully paid for, of course, don’t worry about that. I’d be very happy to do it. But if you want to go through the system the normal way, that’s okay too. I understand if you don’t trust us, or if you don’t want any danger that might come from living with Batman. We’ll be there helping protect you as long as necessary either way. It’s up to you, Steph.”

Stephanie stares at him for a few seconds, then looks at Dr. Thompkins.

“I can’t go home?” she asks, quietly. “For real?”

Dr. Thompkins sighs, and shakes her head, reaching out to take Steph’s hand. “No, Steph. The situation crossed the line this time, and I’m obligated to report now. I’m sorry.”

“Do you trust him? Mr. Wayne?”

Dr. Thompkins stares steph right in the eyes. “With my life,” she says, seriously. “And with yours. He’s one of the best men you’ll ever meet.”

“I haven’t met many good ones,” Steph says. “That doesn’t mean a whole lot.”

“Maybe we could make it mean something,” Bruce says. “I’m not perfect, by any means. But I do try to be a good person, and a better parent. I’d appreciate it if you gave me a chance, for a little while at least. Until your mom is ready to be that great mom she used to be, again.”

“Bruce is the best adult that ever happened to me,” Tim says, suddenly, from the floor. He sits up, shoving Nova and his brothers off a little bit. “My parents aren’t dead or anything, and I know my situation isn’t the same as yours—my Dad’s not, like, a villain, or anything, and I don’t want to go back to live with them that much now. I didn’t really have a Good Mom from before, like you do. But look, I promise Bruce is good. Really good. He’s...he understands. And he knows how to treat us the way we need, even when we don’t know we need it. If that makes sense.” Tim takes another breath, and stares up at Steph with conviction. 

“I’m just trying to say, I trust Bruce, and he’s never let me down, not once the whole time I’ve been here so far,” Tim says. “And if he ever would do something that makes you want to leave, I’ll get you out of here myself, okay? I swear. It won’t be necessary, but I’d do it.”

One side of Steph’s mouth tips up a little. “Pinkie swear?” she asks, a little amusement in her voice.

“Sure,” Tim says. “You might have to wait a bit, though, because no one is currently _letting me up.”_

“We’re saving you from yourself,” Jason says. 

“Speak for yourself,” Dick says with a grin. “I’m just using this as a thinly-veiled excuse to trap you both in a cuddle pile. It’s been over a week. And it also isn’t nearly as fun without Cass.”

There’s a soft bit of laughter from up above them, and all the boys shoot little waves in that general direction. 

Down? Tim signs. Please? And Cass hits the floor seconds later, sliding into their floor tangle with ease while Dick lets out a victorious whoop and Leslie shakes her head with a smile at the whole group. 

Steph looks over at Bruce. 

“It’s just for a little while?” she demands. “You’ll really let me go back with my mom?”

“As soon as the state determines she’s ready to take care of you well enough again,” he promises. “Not a day later.” 

“And if I want to leave?”

“We won’t force you to stay. Our family resource agent and a social worker will help you find someone else to stay with instead.”

Steph nods. “And the Spoiler stuff?”

“On hold while you heal,” says Bruce, firmly. “But you’ve done a good job. I’d appreciate your help working through evidence and clues, if you’re up to it. If you want to stay.”

Steph waits a few seconds, watching the siblings on the floor tangle up in some kind of weird refusing-to-laugh-while-being-poked game, or something, looks at Leslie who’s staring at Steph with the same look of hope and worry she seems to get a lot around her, and then over to the doorway, where the man who must be Alfred is nudging the door open with one foot and balancing an enormous tray of mugs on one hand while two more dogs bounce into the room around him and head straight for the chaos on the rug, much to Jason’s delight. 

She looks back over at Bruce, finally, and gives him a small smile. 

“Okay,” she says. “I don’t really know you, yet, and your family is kind of crazy, but...if you’re sure it’s not too much trouble for me to stay—”

“It’s not,” Tim calls from the middle of the ruckus. 

Steph rolls her eyes. “Okay, fine, if you’re sure—”

“I am,” Bruce says, smiling back. 

“Okay,” Steph says, exasperated. “Fine! I’ll stay. Thank you. You really are going to get my mom help? Just because?”

“I really am,” Bruce promises. “She deserves to be healthy and feel better than this. And you deserve your mom back. I have the means to help, and I want to. Leslie cares about you a lot, and you’re already pretty tangled up with my kids and me as it is. As far as I’m concerned, you and your mom are family now.” 

He hands her one of the mugs from Alfred, which she now sees contains the best-smelling tea she’s ever held.

“Just one thing I want you to promise me, while you’re living with us,” Bruce adds. 

Steph takes a sip of the tea, and makes a delighted noise in the back of her throat. She can’t help it. It’s _amazing_. “What?” she asks.

Bruce smiles wryly. 

“Never, ever try to hit any of my kids with a brick again, okay?” he says. “It’s hard enough getting them through to adulthood without major injuries as it is. They don’t need any help on that front. And I really like them un-brain-damaged. We’ve all got enough work to do on our brains as it is. Got it?”

“Yes sir,” Steph says, grinning back sheepishly. “I promise, it won’t happen again. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“Good,” says Bruce. “I’m going to go call my family resource worker and lawyers, and get things started, okay? The police are probably going to have to come by and get a statement from you about your mom and how you got shot. Leslie and I will work out a story before that, don’t worry.” He stands and pats her on the knee gently. “You going to be all right for a while with these hooligans?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Steph says, leaning back into her pillows fully at last. “I actually think I want to take a nap, maybe. If that’s okay.”

“More than okay,” Dr. Thompkins says, while she swaps out the empty antibiotic bag for a fresh one. “You’ve had a long night and a draining day so far. Sleep heals. Knock yourself out, kiddo. I’ll kick the others out in a few minutes so you can nap in peace. And I’m staying till tonight, in case you need anything, so don’t worry about that.”

“Okay,” says Steph, and she lets Leslie help her settle down more flat again, while Alfred takes Mr. Wayne’s former spot on the loveseat with a book of poetry and his own mug of tea. 

Bruce is almost out the door when he’s stopped in his tracks. 

“Batman,” Stephanie calls suddenly. Bruce turns back around, one hand already on the doorknob. 

“Yeah?” he asks. 

“Thanks,” she says, buried under more blankets than strictly necessary, and finally looking more relaxed than she has all day. “For always looking out for everyone. And for taking me in like this. I know you guys put yourselves at risk last night to get me out of the city. You didn’t have to. But I’m glad you did.”

“Stephanie,” Bruce says, smile more open and real than she’s ever seen in his photos or news clips before. “We’ll always help you when you need it. I’m just glad you’re safe. Get some rest, okay? We can talk more when you’re feeling better. And Tim,” he says, as Tim twists around underneath the combined weight of Dick and Cass to make eye contact. “Come down to my study when you’re ready, even if I’m on the phone at the time. It’s okay. I’ll get the ice cream, and you bring the movie. We’ll talk however long you want.”

“Okay, B,” Tim says, and throws him a quick smile. “I’ll be down in a bit. I love you.”

“Love you too, sweetheart,” Bruce says. “And the rest of you, too. I’m glad you’re my kids. You’ve been amazing last night and today. Take some more naps while you have a chance today. You’ve earned them.”

“Yes, B,” Dick, Jason, and Tim chorus, then lose it in a laughing fit. 

_Worry,_ Cass signs at him, impish grin on her face. _Dad silly._

“Hey,” says Bruce. “It’s my job to worry. It’s a 24/7 effort, over here. I’m proud of it.” He points at her, mock sternly. _“Sleep.”_

Cass throws him a lazy salute and pretends to fall over where she sits, not twitching even at Tim’s quiet half-laughed _oof_ when she lands right across his ribcage. 

Bruce shakes his head and smiles at them all one last time as he opens the door and steps through. 

_“Kids,”_ he calls back over his shoulder, just loud enough to be heard. “Absolute scalawags. Pickles. Hooligans. What would I do without them.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hydrate, eat, take your meds, be punk, try to love yourself, and hang in there pals!!! You're doing a good job! It's hard being a person and I'm PROUD OF YOU. 
> 
> I hope you liked the chapter! Thank you so much for your lovely comments on the last one, I'm going to go reply finally now <33333


	17. oh now I think I must be miles up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which one little birdie flies very high, Tim gets emotional, Hobbits are discussed, and Alfred dads Bruce sometimes, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't edited any of this I'm just _finished_ with it for now and like. I wrote three different chapter 17s bc nothing was WORKING but I hope you like it and desperately I hope it's okay!
> 
>  **Content Warning:** this chapter unintentional, accidental drug use, but drug use nonetheless. be careful, if that's something that can trigger you. and disclaimer that I can only write from my own experiences and what I've heard, and what's described here is in no way meant to be a definitive guide for what certain drugs are like or anything.
> 
> Chapter title is from "Hymn for the Weekend" by Coldplay.

Mid-August flies by in snapshots around Tim, full to the brim and bittersweet with all the endings just over the horizon that he knows he can’t escape. Jason moving to college, his mom’s continued decline, school starting up, whatever Gotham is going to get hit with sooner or later, all of it nags at the corners of his mind day and night until finally Bruce has to take him off patrol just so Alfred can make sure he actually sleeps. 

“There’s no shame in needing help, sometimes,” Alfred tells him gently, on the first truly bad night. Tim makes a face as he tosses back the purple Dr. Thompkins-sanctioned Zzzquil, then hands Alfred the little cup in exchange for a large glass of ice water. 

“Mom and dad would kill me,” Tim mumbles into the glass. “They don’t like anything that’s not, like, food or a plant.”

“You parents,” Alfred says, “are part of the cause of this. I do not believe they get a say now. And your mother is currently taking many medications herself, for good reason, so I daresay you may find their opinions have changed with the circumstances. Regardless, you require sleep to stay healthy, and as your current legal guardian, it is well within Master Bruce’s authority to ensure you get it however necessary, so long as it is safe.”

Tim burrows down under his weighted blanket and shifts backwards until he’s wedged tightly into the corner, as always, and calls Nova up to box him in further. He throws one arm around her middle like she’s a teddy bear and blinks up at Alfred. 

“At least it’s not actually sleeping pills,” Tim sighs. “And it’s not every night. So. I guess—can we just make sure we don’t do this much? I know it’s safe, but…” 

“Of course,” Alfred says, gently. He sets Tim’s empty glass onto a tray with the bottle and cup and stands with one last smile. “Sleeping on your own is always preferable. This is just our...shall we say safeguard? For the times when you truly cannot settle. We will not force it upon you unless you’ve already gone over a day with no rest. That is a promise, Master Tim.” 

“Okay,” says Tim. “Night, Alfred.”

“Good night, Master Tim. Rest well.”

About and hour later, Tim is on the phone with Bruce, speaking across the private line in Bruce’s cowl. 

“B,” Tim says. “Dad. I’m losing my mind. I don’t think this is what’s supposed to happen to me.”

“Robin,” Bruce says, calmly, and Tim can hear that the sound of air rushing has stopped. Batman must have stopped on a building somewhere. “What’s going on?”

“I’m so tired,” Tim nearly sobs. “I’m so _tired,_ B, I want to sleep, I’m so sleepy, but I can’t shut up! I can’t stop talking! I got up to try pacing around and see if maybe that could help, but I’m moving like a slug and I keep missing the rubber ball by half a second when I try to bounce it off the corners, so I know I’m like, off, and I didn’t want to go bother Agent A because I know he’s busy in the cave monitoring things, and that’s important. And Spoiler is sleeping, and she’d straight up shank me if I wake her up, so I’m not gonna do that, duh. And I thought this would just go away, or if I tried doing things for a bit I’d just conk out, but I’m so tired but I’m like, literally reciting polyatomic ions right now just because I need to _talk_. B, what’s _wrong_ with me? Is this bad? Did I do something wrong? I don’t know if maybe I ate something that’s mixing with the Zzzquil wrong, or maybe I’m just weird, or, or, I don’t know, maybe something from one of Ivy’s plants actually had a long-term effect and now I’m never going to be able to sleep again—oh my god, that would be so bad, people die if that happens—I don’t want to die, I just want to _sleep,_ I’m so tired—” and Tim is actually crying now. He sits down hard on the middle of his rug, one hand still holding the phone up to his ear, and he drapes his torso heavily over the top of Nova who’s trying her best to lick his tears off. If he weren’t so thoroughly miserable at the moment, he’d at least manage a laugh at the way it feels. 

Bruce sighs. Tim can almost see him pinching the nose bridge on the cowl. 

“You’re not going to die, sweetheart,” Bruce says. “I promise. You’re having a paradoxical reaction to the antihistamine. It’s known to happen in children sometimes, making them hyperactive instead of drowsy. Although it’s usually younger children, which I suppose could explain why you’re feeling wired and drowsy at the same time instead of just one or the other.”

“Oh. Uh. You’re _sure_ it’s not Ivy or something?”

“I’m sure,” Bruce reassures him. “Trust me. There are research studies online you can look up, if you want. Nightwing used to be knocked out flat in twenty minutes when he had to take Benadryl, but when I was younger, I would turn into the Energizer Bunny. Drove my parents up the walls. This will pass, and you’ll be able to fall asleep eventually.”

“What am I supposed to do until then?” Tim asks, a little miserably. 

“Distract yourself,” Batman orders. “I’ll come back a little early tonight, once we wrap this mission up. I’m sending Agent A up to you now, and he’s going to make some warm vanilla milk for you. The tryptophan might help a little. Can’t hurt, anyway.” 

“But A—”

“Wants to help,” Bruce says, firmly. “Let him mother hen you, Robin. He takes it as a personal affront when something medical-related doesn’t work perfectly. We’ll be back within an hour. All right? Can you hang in there till we get back?”

“Yeah, of course,” Tim says immediately. “I’ll be fine. I’m just—weird. Is this what being high is like? Because if it is, I never want to be high ever. At all.”

Bruce snorts. “It is not like being high at _all._ And you’re not allowed to try weed, Robin. You’re underage and this is New Jersey.”

“I wasn’t _gonna,”_ Tim protests. “I was just trying to make the point that—”

“Hate to break up this party,” Flamebird interrupts, cutting in on the private channel, which, what? “But there are guys? With guns? And they’re like. About to round the corner, B.”

“Understood,” Batman says. “Meet me on the corner of the old shoe factory. We’ll drop down on them from there.” He pauses for a second, then adds, “Don’t get shot. Blackbird, you go across from us and pin them from behind while they’re distracted.”

“Understood,” Cass echoes, slowly but with all the correct inflections.

“Oh my god,” Tim hisses. “B. Have I been on the open comms this whole time.”

“Hope you get some sleep soon, Robin,” Batgirl says, then, entirely too cheerful. “Try a hot bath and some Buzzfeed Unsolved. It’ll at least pass the time. Gotta go, someone’s hauling a freshie out the back entrance of a club, bye.”

“Oh my god,” Tim moans. “Why is this my _life.”_

“Batman out,” says Bruce, and Tim barely remembers to hit the end call button before he hurls his phone onto the bed and groans for about a _million years._

* * *

A week later, they drop in on a large drug stockpile in one of the warehouses by the docks. They thought it was Scarecrow, for a moment, but it turned out to actually be just heaps of black-market amphetamines from a nearby high schooler’s study drug racket and a whole awful lot of low-level weed in little brown paper sacks. And, well. 

It’s Robin and Flamebird, since Batman is currently home with a mild cold. So. Things get a very little, just a _tiny_ bit, oh-so-slightly on fire. And their comms are maybe silenced, for a bit, so Bruce can’t yell at them while they make things go boom. 

No one’s hurt, of course, they made sure the warehouse was cleared first. Tim even did one last perimeter check to make sure, once the fire started taking hold. Jason reaches over to high-five him without turning as they stand together on a nearby shipping container to watch the fire department put out the blaze. 

“Whoops,” Tim says, cheerfully. “Our bad.”

“Drug dealers can have a little fire,” Jason says, “as a treat.”

Tim laughs. He leans over onto Jason’s arm, for a moment, blinking at the way stray cinders are floating up into the foggy harbor air here and there, tracking their swirling drift through his domino. 

“‘S so pretty,” he says. “Hey. Flamebird. We should blow things up more often.”

Jason looks down at him, amused, and pats his frizzy man-bun a couple times, wondering when Tim became a cat. 

“Yeah?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” Tim says. “This is great. I didn’t know it was so fun. I haven’t felt so...not-stressed...in like…” he frowns, crinkling the top of the domino mask. “I dunno. A long time. Wow. Am I just literally always, like, low-key stressed out and didn’t realize? Huh.”

Jason suddenly feels dread rising. Surely Tim wasn’t around the building long enough for—yeah, the fire probably hadn’t burned enough of the stacks yet for it to—

“Whatever,” Tim says, cheerful again. He wraps both arms around Jason and _leans_. 

Tim never initiates hugs. He’s still terrible at actually asking for physical affection, even after all the months he’s been living with them now.

 _Oh god,_ Jason thinks. _Oh no._

“Hey, can we go to Uncle Bob’s?” Tim asks. “I’m hungry. I want pancakes. Oh! Dude, Agent A packed cookies, look.”   
And Tim stuffs two in his mouth before holding the rest of the small aluminum foil bundle out to Jason.

“Oh god,” Jason says. “Holy shit, baby bird. How did you even—”

“What?” Tim says, confused. His head tilts to the right, just a little bit, while he looks up at Jason, and it’s so cute, and Jason is so dead. So dead. Farewell, cruel world. College was a nice dream. Jason’s had a good run, all things considered. He won’t even be super mad about it when B systematically wrings his neck when they get back to the cave.

“Uh, yeah,” he says absently, patting Tim’s head a couple times while he flicks his comm back on. “We’ll—we’ll call in an order to go and take it back to the cave, okay? Hey, B?” he adds, when he hears the line click on, and the telltale intake of breath that means he’s about to get an earful for the radio silence.

“Yes,” Batman grinds out. 

“We, uh. We have a little situation.”

“A situation.”

“Yes.”

“What kind of situation.”  
“A, uh,” Jason says, as Tim hums happily around another mouthful of decadent chocolate cookie. “A little birdie situation. A...soaring little birdie situation.”

There is silence on the line for a solid five seconds. 

“Is he high,” Bruce says, _so_ calmly. 

Jason is _fucked._

“Um,” says Jason. “Maybe just a little.”

“Get back to the cave,” Bruce sighs. “Blackbird can finish the patrol route tonight. We’ll check to make sure the weed wasn’t laced with anything. And you’re going to give a _full_ report.”

“Right,” Jason says, faintly, near giddy with relief. 

“And you’re both grounded.”

“Okay.”

“And don’t speed on Flannery. The police are hidden off one of the alleys there.”

“Got it,” Jason says, tugging Tim down to drop over the edge of the shipping container towards where they parked the Batmobile. “Can we stop for pancakes first? If I call it in? Tim’s hungry.”

Bruce _hns_ for a moment. “Fine. No getting out of the car. And bring me some of the strawberry crepes, while you’re at it. We’re in for an interesting night.”

“Yes, B,” Jason says obediently. “Thank you, B, see you soon, bye.”

“Jason,” Tim says, once they’re safely in the Batmobile and Jason is pulling out of the alleyway like a bat out of—well. That joke was old before Jason even became Robin. And yet somehow, the phrase just _doesn't seem to die._

“Yeah, baby bird?” Jason replies quickly, two fingers hovering on Tim’s throat trying to make sure his pulse is fine, because now _he’s_ worried, too, that maybe it wasn’t just weed, or the weed was laced with something dangerous, because this is Gotham, and those are drug dealers, and—

“I’m sad.”

Jason glances over. Tim is staring out the front window, slumped in his seat, looking like he’s fifty years old in the body of a twelve-year-old. 

“You are?” he asks. Tim seemed pretty happy a few minutes ago. They just ran out of cookies, but Jason already passed him some Doritos from the emergency stash, and he seems to be pretty content with those. 

“Yeah,” Tim says softly. “I feel really warm, and like, okay. Calm. This is nice. But I’m _really_ sad.”

“Why are you sad, buddy?”

“Dunno,” says Tim. He crunches down loudly on one of the chips. “Just soft and quiet and sad.” Then he laughs. “My mom and dad told me once that they were a week later than they said they’d be because they got chased by an cheetah on their way to the airport and had to like, dive into the ocean for a few days, when it chased them all the way over to the edge of the land, and that was why they hadn’t been able to call and tell me they were coming home for real until they got to the airport with a public phone. And I thought that made some sense. I was so little.”

Jason feels his stomach clench. It sounds like Tim is going to be a chatty little bird, tonight. 

“That was silly,” Tim says, with a firm nod. “I learned. They stopped things like that soon. But why didn’t they just tell me the truth?” 

Jason doesn’t have an answer. This is so far above his pay grade. He hits submit on the online order form for their food and double-checks the car’s autopilot, trying desperately to figure out what Tim needs to hear. 

“Whatever,” Tim says, suddenly. He throws back a few more chips, and holds the bag out for Jason to share. Tim starts humming the Pirates of the Carribean theme song under his breath and wraps the cape around him like a blanket, gaze locked unwavering onto one of the blinking lights on the Batmobile’s dash. Jason pulls out a few Doritos and eyes Tim carefully. 

“You still sad, bud?” he asks. 

“Oh, yeah,” Tim says, glancing over at him with a small smile. “I’m always sad, I think. But it’s okay! I’ve got you. And pancakes soon.” He pauses, then brightens like a fluorescent bulb all of a sudden. “And _Batman!_ Dude, Batman is our _dad_. How did we get that lucky? Batman is the _best._ God. I fucking love all of you so much.” He blinks slowly, back to staring with single-minded focus, this time at the constantly-moving bars of the silent police scanner. 

“Timmy?”

“I love you so much,” Tim says. Sniffs. 

“Oh, bud, hey...” Jason hits the comm button on the door and faintly hears the line click open as it connects. 

“I love you all _so much,”_ Tim says, sinking down in his little cocoon, and suddenly bursts into tears. “You’re the _best,_ and I love you, and I don’t deserve _any_ of you, and I love you so much, and I don’t want you to _go.”_

“Oh, _buddy,”_ Jason says, miserably, and reaches out to tug Tim into a hug as best he can over the stick shift and console. “Hey, I’m just going to college. I’m not even leaving the state. I can come visit on weekends, and stuff, sometimes. I’m coming home for holidays and summers, I’m not going to just stay away. And we’ll talk on video calls all the time, right?”

“You’re _leaving,”_ Tim says, through tears. “Why does everyone end up leaving me?”

“Not everyone—”

“My parents, all the nannies, all the staff, Ives, Mrs. Mac was around the longest, and now even she’s gone too,” Tim cries, as if he didn’t even hear Jason. “They all—and you—what if you don’t come back? You’re moving somewhere else, you’re going to get friends, and—and I’m a mess, and like, Bruce is gonna get tired of me, I know, okay, this always—I _know_ people won’t always stay, and it’s good that you’re going to college, this is so _stupid,_ I’m sorry—I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“Shhhh,” Jason tries, helplessly. “Shh, it’s okay, I’m sorry you’re so upset, baby, I’m so sorry.”

“Robin,” Batman says, suddenly, in character. Tim snaps up, wrenching out of Jason’s hug. 

“Batman,” he responds, scrubbing his eyes and nose roughly with the sleeve of his uniform. 

“It’s going to be all right, Robin,” Batman says, more gently this time. “How are you feeling?”

“Good,” Tim says. 

“Robin.”

Jason silently hands the cashier a hundred dollar bill through the window, and mouths _keep it_ as he accepts the bag holding their order and immediately pulls out of the drive-thru. 

“Good,” Tim insists. “I’m good, B, don’t worry about me.” 

It’s freaky. If Jason hadn’t been there himself, he’d have no clue aside from the slightly-damp domino fabric that Tim had even been slightly upset seconds earlier. It’s like he’s turned into a totally different kid. Bruce said he’d seen it happen before, when Tim was around his parents on some of the visits, or when Tim didn’t feel safe. But Jason hadn’t seen it himself. At least not this drastic.

He wonders suddenly how much of the time Tim might be hiding things from them more subtly, and they just...don’t notice.

“Really,” Bruce says. “Because it sounded like you were really upset, for a minute. I heard you’re feeling a little off, sweetheart.”

“I’m fine,” Tim says, stubbornly, but Jason doesn’t miss the way his brow furrows and how he wraps up in the cape again.

“It’s okay to _not_ be fine,” Bruce says, slowly, gently. “You’re allowed to be upset, Robin, and have a bad night, or day. You can be sad any time you need to, however often you need. You don’t have to behave a certain way around me. You can be honest.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“That’s weak,” Tim mutters. 

“I’m sick right now,” Bruce counters. “I’m in bed with chicken broth and a laptop and a comm and Parks and Rec reruns. I’m frustrated, because I don’t like being sick. And I’m scared, because my children are out in danger without me there to protect them just in case. And I’m sad, because one of my children is sad right now. Does any of that make me weak, Robin?”

“You’re Batman.”

“It doesn’t matter if I’m Batman. Batman is still just a person. Does any of that make me weak?” Bruce repeats. 

“No,” Tim says. 

“So if it doesn’t make Batman weak,” Bruce says, “does it make you weak, to feel the same feelings?”

Tim doesn’t answer. 

_Faster,_ Jason begs the Batmobile. _Come on._

“Your parents didn’t like it when you were angry, or sad, right?” Bruce goes on. “But that doesn’t mean they were right. Come on, sweetheart. We’ve talked about this, and I know you’ve talked about it in therapy too. Things are strange, tonight. It’s okay to be struggling. But we can’t help make you feel any better unless you’re honest with us. Do you want to feel better?” 

Tim glances over at Jason. 

“Yeah,” he mumbles. “But I don’t want to cry.”

“Okay,” Bruce says. “That’s fine. You don’t have to cry. But it’s all right if you do. Let’s try one more time. How are you feeling, Robin?”

“I don’t feel alert,” Tim says. “It’s—it’s quiet, for once. I like it but it’s kind of scary. I don’t—I dunno what to do about it.”

“Quiet?” Bruce asks, suddenly popping up in a domino mask on the dashboard screen.

“Yeah,” Tim says. His hand flutters around his head, and he tries to explain. “Like...in my head, everything is like...a big warm living room? Instead of normal. Like there were all kinds of buzzing wires before, all the time, and I didn’t notice till they shut off.”

“I see,” says Bruce. “Were they good wires?” 

“Dunno,” says Tim. “It’s just...quieter. I feel like there’s more me in here. It’s like—like—” he frowns at Bruce, searching for the right words. Jason plops the take-out bag in TIm’s lap as he takes back manual controls to drive them through the waterfall and onto the platform in the cave. 

“Like when I’d get to go back in my room and lock the door, and then go to the bathroom and lock that door, too,” Tim says, finally, “and no one else can come in, and it’s just me, and I don’t have to constantly kind of. Watch? And be ready? I can kind of just...be me and not plan or have to listen for…”

“Danger?” Bruce suggests.

“Hm,” says Tim. “Yeah, I guess that’s it. It’s just quiet, right now,” he repeats. “It’s weird. This isn’t normal.”

“I think it actually is more normal than you’re used to, and that’s why you’re unsettled by it,” Bruce says. “You’ve been some level of hypervigilant for years. Having a substance relax you suddenly would absolutely feel different.”

“A substance?” Tim asks. 

Jason pops his door open and practically vaults the hood of the Batmobile to yank Tim’s open and scoop out both him and the bag of food. He takes off for the medical bay, where Alfred and Bruce are waiting. 

“Marijuana, sweetheart,” Bruce says, as he reaches out to take Tim from Jason’s arms, and pulls him down onto the gurney Bruce has leaned back on with a box of Kleenex by his side. “This is what being high is like, Tim.”

“Oh,” says Tim. He looks thoughtful. “It’s not _bad,”_ he says slowly. “I think I’m kind of off, but the quiet is kind of nice. Now that I’m getting more used to it.”

“Well, don’t get too used to it,” Bruce says. “This is illegal in at least three different ways. We’re not having a repeat performance.”

“I dunno, B,” Jason says, thoughtfully. “I know he’s a little too high right now, and emotional—”

“I’m not emotional,” Tim protests, perfectly calm as Alfred carefully draws a vial of blood while Tim lies wrapped around Bruce like a koala. Bruce is currently struggling to get 

_“But,”_ Jason continues, “if he’s noticing a difference in his stress levels from this, and it’s clearly making him talk about things more easily—you weren’t even on the line yet when we were in the car, for the first bit—maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to try medical mj, with Dinah? In a controlled setting? For that matter, it might help you too.”

“No,” Bruce says. “I’m not saying you’re wrong, but we need more research, and safety checks, and Tim isn’t eighteen yet. I’m no saint, Jason, I’ve done some weed in my day. It gives me the same kind of relief it seems to give Tim right now. But there’s a risk of getting hooked on that, and until Tim is an adult, making his own legal decisions, I’m not having that while he’s under my care.”

“Marijuana isn’t addictive,” Jason protests. 

“Not like heroin,” Bruce says. “Of course not. But you know how a lot of people drink alcohol to cope with painful feelings. It makes them feel better for a while, right? Takes away pain, or anxiety? Marijuana isn’t physically addictive like some drugs are. But if Tim got hooked on the feeling of being able to fully relax, like that, and took it more and more often until he didn’t feel like he could get through a day without the relief? That’s addiction. We’re not going to risk it.”

“That makes sense,” Jason sighs. “It’s just...it doesn’t seem fair. That he’s sad all the time, and always so stressed, to the point where he didn’t even realize it until it wasn’t there anymore.” He frowns. “It’s not fair that any of us have to deal with all this crap. We shouldn’t have been hurt by so many people. But Tim’s—

“I know,” Bruce says, sounding exhausted. “I know, buddy. Come here. There’s room for one more up here.”

Jason fiddles with the rolled top of the food bag, where he’s set it on the counter, and gives Bruce a look. “Are you sure?” he asks. “Shouldn’t you be like, mad at me right now?”

“I am mad,” Bruce says. “But not at you. Or you, Tim,” he adds, gently working at the edges of Tim’s domino mask with a rag dipped in their usual solution. “Accidents happen. I’m very worried, but both of you are safe now, and we’ll handle anything that comes up. The only people I’m angry at are the people who have hurt my children over the years, and the drug dealers who take advantage of lots of other people’s children being in pain in order to get them hooked on substances and make money.”

Jason climbs up onto the gurney and squeezes between Bruce and the railing. Bruce blows his nose once before wrapping an arm around Jason and tugging him in.

“So,” Bruce says, while Tim starts to faintly snore against his ribs. “Why don’t you tell me what happened tonight, play by play, while we wait for this high little birdie to wake up, and then we’ll talk about how to help make your move a little less stressful for everyone while we all dig into the deliciously greasy breakfast food.”

“Okay, dad,” Jason sighs, letting the tension drain from his muscles as he tugs off his own domino. “Sounds good. But is he gonna—is Tim gonna be okay?”

“He will,” Bruce says, confidently as he can through a stuffy nose. “Don’t worry too much. The chances of the weed being laced with enough of anything to affect him are very low. We’re just taking precautions. He’ll be right as rain in the morning, and in the meantime, we might get some funny quotes for the post-it note wall.”

Jason snorts. “Remind me to never get high around you, if you’re the type that collects blackmail material.”

“Oh, I’m not the one to worry about,” Bruce says with a grin. “That’s Dick. He’s sneaky. And I know Tim here is Mr. Paparazzi, with all the files, but Dick has a stockpile of blackmail videos and photos somewhere on a hard drive that even I haven’t found in all these years. He pulls it out every now and then when I don’t want to go on a certain Justice League mission, and threatens to show the team if I don’t help out.”

“No,” Jason says, absolutely delighted, and immediately making a mental note to contact Dick and demand some of the better Bruce files. Maybe swap them for a few Jason himself has been hoarding for a rainy day. “Dickiebird? Mr. Friendly Sunshine?”

“He’s good with people,” Bruce says. “Making friends, being kind, helping them. Manipulating them when necessary. He’s always been able to. Not exactly on purpose, when he was younger, but that’s a skill like any other, and we honed it in him as he grew up. It’s why he’s so good at undercover work, when necessary. I know you haven’t seen him on one of those missions yet.”

“And galas,” Jason says, with a little awe. “I always wondered how he ended up so smooth with the fake talk while he manages to sound just as warm and happy as he always does with us.”

 _“Acting,”_ Bruce says, in his best imitation of Sir Patrick Stewart’s voice. 

“Indeed,” says Alfred, finally stepping back over. “A skill which you yourself have developed well enough in these past two decades to fit in with any respectable acting company. But I would ask, sir, that you refrain from any more attempts at imitating the masters.” He shoots Bruce a stern look. “A British accent you may do, but Sir Patrick’s vocal range you have not.”

Bruce laughs hard enough to end up in a short coughing fit, which somehow still doesn’t wake Tim at his side. 

“Duly noted, Alf,” Bruce says, once he finishes coughing. “I won’t besmirch the king again.”

“Gratitude oozes from my being,” Alfred says dryly. “Try again, perhaps, in thirty years, and we shall see how you do then, when your vocal register has shifted. That is, if you do not destroy it altogether with the way you gargle rocks in your throat every night while shouting after all the criminals in this city.”

“I’m doing fine so far,” Bruce says. 

“The slowly-growing nodules on your vocal chords suggest otherwise.” Alfred hands him a cup of honey lemon tea, and Bruce sips dutifully. “But for tonight, at least, they get a blessed break. Drink all of that, Master Bruce, and then if you want more before breakfast, let me know. I’m off to run the tests on Master Tim’s blood samples. I shall let you know if there is anything of concern.”

“Besides outrageous levels of THC,” Jason snorts.

“Besides that,” Alfred agrees, looking over his boys one last time before turning and heading towards the lab. “Rest well, and text or shout if I am needed. And make sure you all drink water.”

“Yes, Alfred,” Bruce and Jason chorus. Then they glance down at Tim, who looks as peaceful as they’ve ever seen him, despite the emotional glimpse into his deeper feelings not long ago in the Batmobile.

“Well,” says Bruce. “If nothing else, tonight is going to be an interesting learning experience about how Tim reacts when high. I remember when this sort of thing happened with you, a few years back.”

“Oh, god,” Jason moans. “Dick was the best. But also the worst. I couldn’t look at nachos again for _weeks_.”

Bruce smiles. “You were quite a handful. I had to get you down from the rafters in the west wing add-on at least six times. You kept saying you liked being tall.”

“I was still short, then!” Jason protests. “You can’t hold anything against me that I said or did while I was high. And in my defense, that was the strain from that grad school lab that the meta was tampering with. We don’t even know if that was regular weed.”

“We tested it,” Bruce says. “Everything was normal. Modified, but normal. Just because they occasionally watered the plants with Mountain Dew, that doesn’t mean that that’s what made you stand on a wooden beam going “I’m a Robin, motherf—”

“OKAY!” Jason shouts, hitting Bruce with a spare pillow while they both laugh. “Okay! Point taken! Maybe we should all get you high and see what stupid stuff you do, just so things are fair.”

“Tell you what,” Bruce says. “If you get Superman to try weed, I’ll do it too.”

“Are you—are you serious?”

“As the grave. If you can convince Clark to do it, then I’ll get high at the same time. Assuming that weed works on him, of course. We’ll have to look into that. I don’t know if that’s been tested in the simulations yet.”

“Oh man,” Jason says. “If I can get Dick to help—”

“I shouldn’t have told you how good he is at manipulation,” Bruce sighs.

“Get ready, old man,” Jason says with a grin, as he jabs Bruce in the chest with one finger. “You’re going to have to pay up on this one. There’s no way we’re passing this up.”

“Only in a state where it’s recreationally legal,” Bruce warns. “You get Clark to agree, and you get us there. Then I’ll do it.”

“Deal.”

“Come on,” Bruce sighs, tugging Jason a little closer, and making sure not to bump Tim. “Tell me about tonight, all the way up to when you patched me in on the ride home. And then we’ll have an early breakfast.”

“First breakfast,” Jason says, closing his eyes and letting his head rest on Bruce’s broad shoulder. “Then Alfred can make us second breakfast. And then as recompense for tonight, we’ll get Tim to make us elevensies.”

“Oh, are we Hobbits now?”

“B,” Jason grins. “We’re always Hobbits. We’re like, the Hobbitiest family in the entire hero community.” 

“We are in a cave, right now,” Bruce agrees. “And quite cozy. And I’m drinking tea.” He takes a sip, then turns his head to stare Jason down. “Now. No more distractions. Spill, Jaybird. It’s all right.”

Jason sighs. “Okay,” he begins. “When we first hit the city, we swung by Gordon’s office, to drop off Steph’s thank you cake and pick up the file he wanted to give you…”

* * *

They do, in fact, have a very interesting night once Tim wakes up. Mostly, they eat a lot of breakfast food and Jason’s stash of chips that Alfred pretends he doesn’t know is tucked in the back of the east wing kitchen pantry. And play Cards Against Humanity, which is kind of a mistake and kind of the best thing that’s ever happened in Jason’s life, and which gives Steph, Cass, and Jason enough blackmail footage of both Tim and Bruce to get them at least two entire get-out-of-jail-free situations when they decide to cash in.

In the end, it could have been a lot worse. And Tim sleeps for about twelve hours, when it’s all said and done, so as Alfred says, all’s well that ends well. Bruce is back on patrol the next night, and keeps Tim close the whole time, anyway. 

Halfway through their stakeout of an apartment in Midtown, Batman and Robin get a call, and pack it in for the night while telling the others to finish their patrol routes and head home for some sleep.

Tim’s mom goes on hospice the next morning, and Bruce announces a sabbatical from Wayne Enterprises so he can spend more time with the family, and get both Steph and Tim to their frequent parental visits and help an increasingly-stressed Jason prepare for his official move to Princeton in just a little over a week.

Cass’s father shows up on patrol the night after that. And that’s when everything starts to go terribly, horribly wrong. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The thing with Tim and the antihistamines, fun fact, is exactly what has happened to me every time I've taken Benadryl in my life except when I've been already on another medicine making me drowsy. The first time I ever took it, I went straight to 7th grade volleyball practice, and couldn't do ANYTHING right or on time, or move quickly, but as my coach put it, "Oh my god, Katie. Can you stop talking for one minute tonight? What is WRONG with you today?" lol. Someone called my older brother to pick me up and I got in his car and was like "I think something's wrong with me" near tears and he was like oh kiddo. And drove me home while trying not to laugh.
> 
> Siblings, man!!! <3
> 
> I'm so excited for the next few chapters. Things are really going to start happening and I can FINALLY WRITE WHAT I'VE BEEN EXCITED ABOUT FOR LIKE A MILLION DAYS NOW. I hope you're all doing well, and remember to drink and eat and take any meds you need! You've got this!


	18. blackbird singing in the dead of night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blackbird has a voice now, and she’s not afraid to use it. Fact: big things happen. Fact: things go pear-shaped. Fact: Tim cries on a shower floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM EXTREMELY NERVOUS ABOUT THIS CHAPTER STYLE BUT I HOPE YOU ENJOY
> 
>  **Content Warning:** gas attack by the Scarecrow, mention of serious illness and death, multiple mentions of guns because David Cain carries them, but none are fired.
> 
> My favorite version of Blackbird is by They Grey Havens, it’s beautiful. Do yourself a favor and check it out if you like the song at all.

Tim stares down at the nearly-invisible cut in his skin, and in that instant everything becomes static, just faint ringing in a haze. All sound has fallen away. 

He doesn’t feel the mist of the chemical shower, or Bruce’s hands landing on his shoulders, sliding up to grip his face. He doesn’t feel the chill rolling through his body from wearing his sopping wet scrubs in the cool air. His world has shrunk to the burning of one tiny cut and a distant tidal wave of fear, rushing closer with every second, soon to crash down over him and leave Tim searching for the surface, searching for air, searching for an anchor to keep himself from being swept away by panic. 

He hears voices, distantly, around and around and  _ around _ him, but they’re not important. 

It’s just him, and the chemicals, and the stinging break in his skin, and if he could just think—for a second, just—

_ Think, Tim. If you can fix this, maybe it will be okay. If you can fix this fast enough, if you can work the problem, maybe no one has to die.  _

* * *

He’s a detective, right? It’s what he does. Remove emotions. View remaining facts from a distance. Make deductions. 

He has to figure out where everything went wrong. 

* * *

Fact. Tim spends the day with his parents, Bruce circling in orbit around Tim like a quiet protector. His dad tells Tim more about the last dig they had gone on, and how the company is doing this quarter after their new partnership with Lexcorp in Metropolis. His mom asks to see the latest photos Tim had taken in the city, a study of neon signs reflected in puddles, taken across a few different districts during the blue hour of the evening. She thinks they’re beautiful, and tells him she’s proud of him and the talent he’s been building all these years. Tim updates her about how much progress Cass has been making with her speech lately, and thanks his mom for the referral to her old friend who’s one of Gotham’s leading speech therapists and a source of great advice for Tim over the past few weeks. They do not talk about his mother’s new hospital bed. They do not look over at her newly-installed pain pump. They drink Alfred’s tea, and eat Tim’s best challah bread, and his mom does Shabbat prayers early so that Tim can do them with her before going home for dinner.

* * *

Fact: Tim does not cry in front of his mom.

* * *

Fact: Tim cries the whole walk back to Wayne Manor, and Bruce does not tell him it’s all right, because it isn’t. And he knows. 

Fact: Bruce  _ does _ tell him that he will survive this, and that he is not alone, and that the pain will not kill him, even when he feels like it will. Bruce tells him that he’s here. Bruce hugs him for ten minutes while Tim pulls himself together. Then they walk into the dining room, and Tim tells Jason everything went fine, and doesn’t meet Cass’s eyes, and eats half of what Alfred puts on his plate before asking to be excused.

* * *

Fact: Tim holds Nova extra tightly before heading to the cave to change for patrol. He feeds his baby fish, still unnamed, still so small, but growing a little bit every day. He presses one finger to the glass for a few seconds as he pauses, taking a moment to smile at how much more energy the baby has these days. He whispers  _ I love you, little buddy, _ and then walks out the door without looking back.

* * *

Fact: The Gotham Music Festival is in full swing, it’s Friday night, the first night, and the city is ready to  _ party _ . Adults and teenagers and kids are all over a several-block radius, drifting among performers and food trucks and all kinds of merch and craft tables.

Fact: The Bats are ready for a long night of drunken crime and lost children.

Fact: Jason has already begged Bruce for a break to get fried pickles and street tacos. Bruce replied with “hn”, which in this case means, “Probably, but don’t ask again till I bring it up or it’ll be a no.” Tim high-fives Jason while Bruce isn’t looking when they briefly cross paths on the roof of the deli on 11th and Delmar. 

* * *

Fact: David Cain drops down in front of Cass on the third rooftop of the night, gun ready, silencer on. He smiles like he hasn’t featured in every nightmare she has had since Bruce took her in. 

Fact: Blackbird does not stumble. Blackbird does not scream. She drops into a crouch, keeps her eyes locked on Cain, and whispers one single word, hardly loud enough to be heard.

Because it’s not  _ for _ Cain.

* * *

_ “Dad.” _

Batman’s mouth shuts with a  _ snap _ mid-sentence, and with a single flick of his wrist at Tim, he changes direction using the side of an apartment building and trusts Tim to tell Flamebird and Batgirl to rendevous at Cass’s location. 

“Blackbird,” he murmurs, into his own mic in the cowl. “We’re twenty seconds away.”

David Cain doesn’t so much as glance over as Gotham’s vigilantes land in various positions on the rooftop, focused solely on subduing Blackbird. A gun lies near one corner of the roof, and Jason tucks it out of sight behind an air conditioning unit after quickly dumping out the bullets. 

Blackbird is, of course, politely refusing, and more than holding her own. Batman and the others watch, poised and ready, waiting for her to give them an opening and show them what she needs them to do. 

“You’ve grown, Cassandra,” David Cain says through gritted teeth. He barely manages to escape a neat slide-tackle, and gets a sharp open-handed strike to the diaphragm for his trouble. “You’re even better than the last time I saw you fight. I’m so proud.”

Cass snarls, kicks his second gun over to Batgirl, who snatches it up instantly and prepares to leap straight off the roof if that’s what it takes to keep the weapon out of Cain’s hands. 

“Silent,” Cass commands, more fury in her voice than Tim has ever heard, and then she’s kicking off the ground and flipping over Cain’s head, landing on his shoulders and throwing them both backwards to the ground while she wraps her legs and arms around his windpipe and glares down at him from above. When Blackbird spoke to him, Cain froze for a brief moment, and that was all the opening she needed.

Bruce is on the man in a second, ripping the remaining two guns from their holsters and sliding them across to Tim and Jason. He pins Cain’s legs so he can’t roll, flip, or buck Cass off, and the man immediately stops struggling. 

He smiles up at Cass through bloody teeth. 

“So,” he breathes out hoarsely, barely audible through her tight hold. “You ran away and found a voice. Pretty little...songbird, now, are you? I have to say...this isn’t—” he wheezes a couple tight coughs as Blackbird tightens her legs more. “Isn’t...the warm welcome I expected. Aren’t you happy to see your father, Cassandra? It’s...been so long.”

_ “Not,”  _ Cass snarls, “dad.  _ Dad,”  _ she says, letting go with one hand to jab a finger in the direction of Batman. 

“Why are you in Gotham, Cain,” Batman growls. Robin parks himself just over his dad’s shoulder, ready to jump in if necessary. Flamebird and Batgirl do the same behind Blackbird. 

“Not...here to kill anyone,” Cain hisses. “Just...talk. Let me...talk.”

Batman glares through the cowl’s white lenses for a few seconds before looking up at Blackbird.

“Blackbird,” he says, much more gently. “It’s your call. I’ll follow your lead unless he gets violent.”

Blackbird nods once, and unwraps her limbs from around David Cain’s neck and head. 

“Up,” she commands. 

Batman steps off of the man’s lower half, and Cain hauls himself upright, adjusting his clothes and various belts and harnesses as he stands. He clears his throat a few times, rubbing one hand across it as he takes a few wary steps away from Blackbird.

The others move as well, coming to flank her, two on each side. Batman sets one hand on her shoulder, and Blackbird glances up to meet his gaze for just a moment before dropping her tense stance just a fraction and turning back to face down Cain. 

“Talk,” says Batman.

Cain refuses to look intimidated, even with all of his main guns confiscated and blood running off his chin. “I came to bring Cassandra home,” he says, crossing his arms. 

“No,” Blackbird says immediately, signing it at the same time with a harsh  _ snap _ of her fingers. 

“It’s not up for debate,” he says, something low and dangerous entering his tone. “You’re coming with me. This city isn’t safe.”

“It’s not safe for anyone,” Robin says. “We make it safer.”

Cain laughs. “You have  _ no idea,” _ he says, turning to Robin with an ugly smile. “You stupid kid. You don’t have a clue how bad things are going to get. I’m doing you all a favor, getting her out before everything goes down.”

“So  _ tell _ me,” Robin says, ignoring Batman and Flamebird’s signals to stop talking already. “What’s going to happen? We can stop it.”

“No one can stop it. Everything is in motion, it’s already started,” Cain says. “Cassandra. I’ve invested too much time and effort into you to lose you for the sake of this hellhole. You’ve had your fun, now playtime is over. Let’s go.”

“No,” Cass says again.

“Cassandra. Come.” As if she’s a dog being told to heel. 

“I,” Cass snarls, pointing at herself.  _ “ _ Am... _ Cass. _ No.” 

“I can take you by force, if necessary,” Cain growls. “You never used to be  _ stubborn _ . That will have to be trained back out of you as soon as we get to the base.” In the span of two seconds, he suddenly has a tiny revolver in his hand, and it’s aimed directly at Cass. Right under her collarbone. Right where she has that  _ scar _ . 

Robin reaches, out of Cain’s line of sight, and takes Cass’s left hand in his. She squeezes it once, twice, three times, and brushes her thumb across his, not a hint of fear in her movement. He lets out a soft breath.

“Oh, yeah,” Flamebird says, fake-casual. “It’s kind of a family trait, stubbornness. Gets us into a fair amount of trouble. But you know what else it means?” He grins at Cain, all teeth, no eyes.  _ “We don’t let go of our own.” _

“Family,” Blackbird agrees, calmly, as the others step closer to her, closing ranks. Batman steps around her to place himself between Blackbird and Cain.

“If you want her,” he says, deadly quiet, “you’ll have to go through my dead body, Cain. You’ll have to fight every one of us. And I’m sure you can beat me, even without your guns, given enough time. But it seems you’re short on that right now. And all of us, working together? For a daughter who would rather die than go back with you? Who legally exists, now, in the eyes of the law, who people will look for if she vanishes, who the Justice League will hunt down tirelessly until she’s found again, no matter how far and deep they have to search?” He stares Cain’s last remaining gun down, unflinching. “Can you beat all of that?”

Cass leans over to peer around Batman’s imposing cape for a moment. 

“You,” she says, slowly, so carefully. “You...hurt me.  _ Hurt. _ I...wanted words. Love. Wanted...not to hurt others.” She scowls at him, domino mask pinching together at the top. “Never  _ dad. _ You are...wrong.”

Cain stares down Batman for a few more seconds, glances at Cass, looks back to Batman. He growls wordlessly. 

_ “Cass, _ then,” he snaps. “You’re my daughter. I want you safe. This is your last chance. Come with me, leave the city, escape the doom that’s about to fall here. You’ll have the best training in the world. I’ll even—” he cuts himself off, then goes on. “I’ll even tell you who your mother is. Take you to meet her. Come on, Cassandra. Cass. Last chance.”

The emotions play out across Cass’s face. She tenses, leans forward just for a fraction of a second. They can all tell how much the last part of David’s speech affected her, the part about her mother. How much Cass seems to want to  _ know _ . 

But then Cass settles, a heartbeat later, plants herself firmly on the ground. She steps up next to Batman, one hand reaching up to tangle in his cape. 

_ “No,” _ she says. “Family here. Home.”

Cain stares her up and down for a moment, anger, frustration, something else harder to name flashing across his face, and then he turns his back and walks to the farthest roof edge. 

“Fine,” he says. “Stay here with the rest of the doomed fools. I pray your death is quick. Your successor will not be the failure you’ve become, Cassandra. I had such high hopes for you, but you’re  _ weak _ . I wonder if you’ll still think love is worth it, in the end. We won’t meet again.”

He swings himself over the edge of the roof and drops without a sound to a ledge below. 

“Batgirl,” Batman says immediately, while they watch Cain’s silhouette scramble up onto the next building over. “Tail him. Report on where he goes, but stay far back, and as out of sight as you can. Let me know the second he leaves the city. And stay  _ safe.” _

“Yes, sir,” she says, and sprints off to leap across the gap between roofs, rolling smoothly to a stop and slipping into the nearest shadows.

“Blackbird,” Batman says, then, turning to pull her into the folds of his cape as he wraps her in an enormous hug. “Princess, are you all right? Did he hurt you anywhere?”

Blackbird sticks her head and one hand back out of his shroud of darkness and throws him a wobbly smile. 

_ No,  _ she signs.  _ Just— _ She presses her hand tightly on top of her heart. They all watch as Blackbird begins to visibly shake in Bruce’s arms.

Bruce tugs her back in and presses a long kiss to the top of her head, and spends the next few minutes gently walking her through breathing exercises and never letting her go. Once she’s finally more settled, he wraps her fully in his cape and squeezes tight for a moment while she buries her face in his body armor. 

“I’m so sorry this happened,” he murmurs. “I’m so sorry you had to do that, I’m sorry you had to see him again. I’m so proud of you, princess. You did so well. Do you want to go home?” He gently draws Blackbird back out from within his cape and maneuvers her over to stand between Robin and Flamebird, who bracket her in hugs of their own. 

_ No,  _ she signs.  _ Not speak, but stay here. _ She closes her eyes and her face scrunches up for a moment as Flamebird smashes her tightly against his chest. Blackbird wiggles away a few seconds later with a giggle. 

“Don’t ever scare us like that again,” Flamebird scolds. “ _ God. _ You could have  _ died _ . I was terrified for you.”

“It’s not her fault!” Robin protests. “She didn’t plan this. We were all scared.”

“Yeah, but—” 

“Boys,” Batman says, just the faintest tone of amusement in his voice. “If you’re quite finished?”

“Sorry, B,” Flamebird says. 

“Yes, sir,” Robin sighs. 

Blackbird just smiles and takes a step back. Batman locks gazes with her as much as anyone can through the white lenses. 

“You sure you’ll be all right?” he asks. She nods. “Okay,” Batman says. “Then we’ll keep going. But if you need to stop, if you want to go home, or need a break, anything at all, you tell me right away. And stay within a block of me at all times, understand? I’m not going to risk losing you tonight.”

Yes, Cass signs immediately. Love you. Good Dad. 

“I love you too,” Batman says, voice uncharacteristically tight. There’s barely any gravel at all. “So much.”

Blackbird jogs forward, throws her arms around him in a quick hug, and then runs off to leap over the edge of the roof before anyone can say another word. 

“B,” Flamebird whistles. “I think you’re getting soft.”

“Shut up,” Batman says, cheerfully. “I think I’m allowed, with the number of gray hairs you’re all giving me.”

“Where are we going, Batman?” asks Robin. “By the main stage? Or circling the edges of the festival?”

“Please, please not the main stage,” Flamebird begs. “Please. My poor ears.”

“You have earplugs for a reason, Flamebird,” Batman points out. “They’re right there. I know. I put them in your belt myself.”

“That’s not the point.” 

“Am I allowed to be honest?” Robin interjects. “Because I’m kinda with Flamebird on this one. The band they’ve got playing for the next twenty minutes makes my brain want to leak out of my ears.”

Robin is pretty sure they’d see Batman rolling his eyes if the cowl wasn’t in the way. “We’ll patrol the edges, for now,” he says. “Split up, but stay within a block of me at all times. If Cain made his move tonight, and was that serious about believing this city is going down, things must be happening soon. There might be agents or henchmen working through the crowds tonight to move supplies or case out areas under the cover of the crowds and noise. Keep a close eye out.”

“Yes, sir,” Robin and Flamebird reply. Batman catches the sight of a faint thumbs-up from a black figure on one of the rooftops nearby. 

He smiles, and steps up on top of the roof’s ledge. “Let’s move.” 

* * *

Fact: They roam above and around the music festival for a little over two hours. Between the four of them, they stop seven attempted assaults, twelve attempted car break-ins, two drunken fights, one extremely lost elderly lady trying to get in someone else’s apartment building, and one misguided fireworks show that was being set up by some teenagers on one of the side streets. 

Fact: Flamebird, Robin, and Blackbird not only get their street tacos and fried pickles, but fried Oreos as well. Batman even joins them in trying those, after they all mutually swear on their lives to not tell Alfred. 

Fact: At 10:26 p.m., Robin spots a too-familiar figure in a hood winding their way through one of the densest parts of the crowd, heading for the main stage. He calls it in immediately, and they all try their best to close in on the figure. 

Fact: At 10:29 p.m., Batman drops onto the stage behind Scarecrow, right after the man has jumped up, knocked the band’s lead singer aside, and grabbed the mic. 

Fact: Scarecrow manages to get out five words before Batman tears the mic away. They sear themselves into Robin’s memory, every syllable, every bit of the gleeful undertone: “Hello, Gotham! Welcome to  _ hell.” _

Fact: At 10:30 p.m., three hundred backpacks, purses, strollers, and water bottles around the festival begin blowing out fear gas into the throngs of densely-packed people. It is chaos in under two minutes. The screaming is so loud and so constant that the vigilantes put in their silicone earplugs just so they can hear each other over the comms. They jab themselves immediately with the most broad-spectrum antidote for Scarecrow’s gas that they always carry, and after several seconds, it’s clear that it still works.

_ Small mercies, _ Robin thinks. 

With Scarecrow tied up, the vigilantes head into the chaos and begin trying to help. 

Fact: Arkham has no idea Scarecrow is missing, or that he’s actually been free for over three weeks. They have no idea that the Joker has been out for  _ months _ . They don’t know that a third of their inmates, in fact, are free as birds, positioned around the city under the orders of the Joker. And since Arkham doesn’t know, the police had no warning. Batman had no warning. The citizens of Gotham had no warning. 

Fact: At 10:31, Robin perches on top of one of the lighting rigs for just long enough to update the BatWatch forums and the GCPD-run update Twitter, telling everyone there is a gas attack at the festival and to get indoors and  _ stay there. _ The sirens go off around the city in an eerie chorus just as he hits post.

Fact: At 10:33, Robin picks up a young child lost in the stampeding crowd. The child, to Robin’s surprise, is a Gothamite through and through, and has a pocketknife that he is not afraid to use on whatever terrifying hallucination he believes Robin to be. Robin catches the knife gently with his reinforced glove after the child gets a couple swipes in, and within seconds the knife is tucked safely away in Robin’s belt, and the child is gently restrained. Robin keeps up a steady stream of reassurance in the sobbing child’s ear as he runs for the nearest policeman in a gas mask, and hopes that it’s helping somehow. 

Fact: At 10:35, over two hundred short-range missiles hit Gotham airspace and began their descent, breaking apart into payloads on parachutes and freefalling spent fuel stages. The ditched chunks tumble from the sky, crashing into streets and skyscrapers and run-down housing project roofs. 

The payloads land exactly where they’re meant to.

* * *

Batman and Robin are less than twenty feet apart when one of the payloads drifts down, beeping pleasantly, about to land on the street as panicked people claw at walls, and cars, and each other, cowering away. Batman stares down the metal object for a split second as it falls past his eyeline, and pales further than Tim has ever seen.

“Full masks,  _ now!” _ Batman snaps, genuine fear in his voice, and his children obey without question, without hesitation, without thought. 

Robin has just yanked his military-grade mask out of its pouch when the top of the metal object springs open. He shoves the mask over his nose and mouth first before even attempting to bother with the strap, sees Batman do the same in his peripheral vision, and less than a second later the payload is spraying out mist and liquid like a glitter bomb box and humidifier all in one.

Tim’s blood turns to  _ ice _ . He knows this. Oh, god. He _ knows this. _

Batman’s hand closes around his wrist like a vise, and Robin is yanked, pulled, sprinting along beside his father like the Devil himself is chasing after them. 

“Is it smallpox,” he says, again and again. “Is it smallpox. Oh my god. Batman, is it smallpox.”

But Batman can’t hear him, through the mask and the earplugs and the screaming, the wailing, the human misery surrounding them on all sides. 

Flamebird is there, suddenly, one hand around Blackbird’s arm in a mirror of Batman and Robin, and they’re all sprinting away from everyone who needs their help, everyone who is screaming for mercy, everyone left, abandoned on the streets, watching their worst fears unfold while something else is very likely making its way into their blood, lungs, eyes, heart, trying to kill them for real. 

“They could be dummies,” Robin mutters frantically. He’s shoved hard into the back seat of the Batmobile. Doors are slamming shut. “Maybe it’s a joke. Decoys. The Joker does that, right, he uses fake guns and fake bombs and—”

“They’re not fake,” Batman says, grimly, yanking the steering wheel hard. Robin and Blackbird slam into each other, and then the Batmobile skids to a halt just long enough for Batgirl to literally dive in through Flamebird’s open door before they’re off once more, the door slamming shut again through sheer force of movement. 

The speedometer passes 120 and keeps climbing. They hit the highway towards Bristol, and it’s still rising, and Batman takes one hand off the wheel to flip a cover up to reach the button that Tim has never, ever seen used in his life. Not in all his years as BatWatch, not in his time as Robin, not even before all of that when he was still watching Batman and Robin on the 10 o’clock news, eagerly absorbing every scrap of footage the news helicopters and intrepid reporters managed to snag. 

“Shouldn’t we be helping?” Robin demands. He’s twisting around in the backseat, trying futilely to look out the rear window and see what’s going on in the city behind them. “B. People need help. The city is falling apart back there.”

“You all need to be  _ safe,”  _ Batman growls. “This is beyond what you’re trained for. The city can’t be saved from this in one night. If we don’t get off the island within minutes, we’ll be trapped here just as much as everyone else, and we won’t have the resources to help anyone, including ourselves. Do not take your masks off. Hold on.”

As they approach the bridge, what little traffic was still flowing previously has ground to a halt, people huddled in their vehicles or having stepped out towards the sides of the road to try and see what’s going on. The Batmobile is moving so quickly that everything is a blur, and the first beam of the bridge is approaching at light speed. 

“B,” Jason says, Jason because his domino is now off, Jason because there’s fear in his voice, Jason because in this moment he’s eighteen and young and  _ afraid, _ “B, the bridge is going up!”

“I am  _ aware,” _ says Batman. “All of you.  _ Hold on.”  _

The kids grab for every spare limb and  _ Oh Shit  _ handle in sight, and Batman slams his palm down on the rocket jump button. 

They  _ fly.  _

The few guards currently on the drawbridge stations half-heartedly aim their weapons at the Batmobile and don’t even bother to fire. 

“Holy shit holy shit holy SHIT, B, I AM NEVER RIDING WITH YOU AGAIN,” Jason shrieks, and Batman’s right arm flies out to help pin him to his seat as the hood of the Batmobile tips down towards the other half of the bridge, which is rapidly rising up to meet them whether they’re ready for it or not.

“Oh my god,” Robin whispers.

“Fuck,” Batgirl manages to get out, in a strangled voice. 

Cass lets out an odd sound that Robin’s never heard before, halfway between a sigh and a scream, and then they’re  _ hitting,  _ and something is crunching, and there’s a loud  _ honk _ for half a second while Batman’s face hits the steering wheel hard because he was using one arm to brace Jason instead of himself, and then all four wheels are down and catching and the Batmobile slams through the far barrier like it’s butter and they’re  _ through _ . 

“Is anyone hurt,” Batman demands. They’re flying around the edges of Bristol, along the water, headed for the manor via one of the longest possible routes to throw off any surveillance. 

“No,” Jason says, a bit shakily. 3,00

“‘M ok,” Robin mumbles.

“Just my pride,” Batgirl says. “And also my knee. Why is there a cupholder sticking out of the console back here?” 

“No,” Cass manages. 

“Batman,” says Robin, leaning around the edge of the driver’s seat. “You’re bleeding.”

“I’ll be fine,” says Batman. “Sit down. Buckle. Everyone buckle. Why are you not buckled in the first place? This isn’t a school bus. School buses should also have buckles. God.”

“Can we take these masks off anytime soon?” Jason asks.

“No,” Batman says, sharply. “And leave your dominos on. And your cowl, Batgirl. Don’t touch them, and don’t take off your gloves. Flamebird, do  _ not _ touch anywhere near your eyes.”

“Yes, sir,” Jason says. He immediately sits on top of his hands.

“When we get to the cave, you do exactly as I say, and walk exactly where I walk, understand?”

“Yes,” they chorus. Cass signs it where she knows Bruce can see it in the rearview mirror, if he wants to actually check.

“B,” Tim says, quietly. “Were those the smallpox warheads?”

Jason whips around in his seat, eyes wide, and Tim feels Batgirl stiffen against his shoulder. 

_ “Smallpox?” _ Jason demands, pitch rising steadily across the word like it’s a mountain Jason’s voice decided to climb.

“They weren’t Russian,” Batman says. “But that’s all I know. They weren’t the old ones from Russia.”

Tim’s hands are shaking. “But  _ containment _ —we’re a mainland urban center, if they  _ are _ smallpox, or—”

“We’re not going to think about  _ ifs _ yet,” Batman says, firmly. “Robin. Deep breaths. Count. I want you to go to the beach house in your mind.”

“Yes, sir,” Tim says, a little sourly, but he obeys.  _ In for five, hold, out for seven, hold. _

He imagines the open windows, the gently drifting gauzy curtains and the sea breeze, the sound of faint windchimes drifting in with the air, the way the off-angle sunlight gently rolls in over the edge of the windowsill to light up a patch on the old hardwood floor. 

_ 3,000,000 people in this city,  _ Tim’s brain interrupts. 

_ Nope, stop,  _ Tim thinks.  _ Beach house. Calm. Fresh air. The ocean through the window. _

Mist spraying up. Not sea mist. _ Who knows how many thousands and millions of particles that bomb had? Is it an airborne pathogen? Is it viral? Bacterial? How many people— _

_ Shut up shut up shut UP— _

The Batmobile crashes through the waterfall, and the two seconds of water pounding on the reinforced metal like a hammer shatters what little bit of concentration Tim was clinging to. 

_ Approximately 3,000,000 people living in the city, give or take a few hundred thousand depending on the year, plus however many traveling visitors. A lot of people would be indoors for the night already, but that still leaves, what, at  _ _ least _ _ a hundred thousand or so roaming around by the festival? And everyone who’s out clubbing, or traveling home from work or a friend’s house for dinner, and the street kids, oh my god, the kids—shit—plus any animals that were outside in yards, they’d be brought inside, and their fur carries liquid and particles— _

“Out,” Batman commands. The kids fall in line without question behind him, walking around the car towards a passage they never use, one that was mentioned only once a year or so until now, a worst-case-scenario place, and Tim lets his feet carry him on autopilot while Bruce is talking Dick down from driving to Gotham immediately on the phone line patched into his cowl. 

Tim steps gingerly over a couple scattered rocks, barely watching where he’s going.  _ It was dispersed in mist and liquid form, or maybe the mist was just refrigeration venting out, I don’t know, Bruce might know, viruses can only survive for a certain amount of time outside of a host, but that can be hours to days. If it’s smallpox, we’re already fucked, that’s airborne transmission and one of the most contagious viruses humans can spread among themselves...just in the zone around the immediate festival area, assuming, what, at least...seven of the little biobombs? And people running around like crazy, clawing at surfaces, aimlessly moving, they’ll be tracking the sprayed particles all over the streets and everything in them, and people will have open cuts from scratching at walls and fighting each other, or running into things, and that’s not even counting the fact that if it IS an airborne pathogen, most people in that whole chunk of the city won’t be in any frame of mind to think to pull out a mask, not while they’re on fear gas—although it’s not like it would help anyone nearby anyway, at this point, they were too close to the spray—this is the actual worst case scenario for an epidemic. How is this happening right now? We’re a major urban center in a developed nation, we connect everywhere and we’re on a coast, the wind currents alone can carry— _

_ “...Tim. _ Tim!” 

“Yes!” Tim says, suddenly snapping his gaze to Batman. “Sorry. Sorry, B.”

“Tim,” Batman says, deadly serious. “I need you to  _ stop thinking _ . Recite the polyatomic ions, or every single state capital you can name, or every plot point in  _ Wizard’s First Rule _ . I don’t care. But I need you tracking. We’re decontaminating. You’ve  _ got _ to focus.”

“All those  _ people,  _ Bruce,” Tim can’t help saying. “The whole city!”

“We can’t think about that right now,” Batman says, even while the lines of tension deepen around the edges of his mask. “Tim, sweetheart, I know this is awful, but you can’t help anyone else if  _ you _ aren’t safe first. Okay?”

Tim takes a deep breath, then another, and straightens as tall as he can. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Okay, B. I’m following. Sorry.”

“Okay,” Batman says, quietly. “Let’s go. One at a time, into the first room. Stand towards the center and don’t remove anything from your body. Jason, keep your eyes tightly closed.”

Minutes pass, then a half hour, then an hour, and the small group slowly moves through each stage of the process. They remove their gear in pieces, decontaminate in both acid and alkaline showers, flush their eyes for several minutes, rinse their sinuses. Bruce insists on peeling off all of their masks himself, slowly and gently, before allowing them to step over to the eye wash stations. Alfred monitors it all from the main section of the cave, and is simultaneously on Dick-wrangling duty because the boy came down from Bludhaven anyway, saying that if he didn’t make his move within several hours of the attack, he’d have to sneak around a military blockade, and he needed to be  _ home _ . 

He’s antsy as hell, and Alfred ends up giving him the job of being Bruce’s stand-in for the Justice League’s conference call while he’s currently stuck in decontamination. 

Stephanie, too, makes her way down to the cave, once Alfred and Dick wake her up to tell her what’s going on. 

“It was pointless,” she says dully, sprawled across the old futon Dick dragged next to Alfred’s temporary command center. “All the sneaking, and the spying, and trying to get information. No one was gonna be able to predict this.”

“It was  _ not _ pointless,” Bruce says, as he helps Barbara untie her soaking wet, swollen boot laces. “We can’t stop everything. But we can always try. That’s what matters most. And think—if no one knew that  _ something _ was going to happen, we would have been even more unprepared. Think of how many more people would be out at the festival this year if they hadn’t been wary of an unknown attack. Think about how many more people have been carrying their gas masks every day again, instead of staying complacent after so long without a gas attack this year. The police, the citizens, the government—they were all already on higher alert, more prepared, because of  _ you _ . It did help, Stephanie Brown. I guarantee you that lives have been saved tonight because of the extra warning.”

“Not enough,” Stephanie snaps. “God. What’s going to happen to the city?” 

Bruce is silent for a few seconds as he ushers Barbara through to the next stage and turns back to help Tim and Jason as they struggle to strip off their slick, wet gloves. 

“I imagine,” he says, finally, “that we’ll be quarantined indefinitely. Martial law is the only real option in this scenario.”

“Is it bad,” Steph mumbles, barely audible through the comms, “That I’m actually kind of glad my mom’s an addict, right now? Because all I keep  _ thinking, _ you know, is that...it’s been so lousy, and I hate what the drugs do to her, but if she hadn’t gotten addicted to them, and if I hadn’t literally gotten shot, she’d still be in the city. But instead she’s safe at The Aviary. Well. Safer than everyone in Gotham, I guess.”

“If even one infected person gets out of the city,” Tim says, trudging through the next doorway, “nowhere is going to be safe. Unless the whole thing is just an elaborate trick, like the Joker does half the time.”

“I don’t think it is,” Bruce sighs. “Not this time. Either way, we’ll find out from USAMRIID and the CDC soon enough. Superman already dropped off samples.”

They finally reach the last room, the  _ very _ last chemical shower, gentler than the rest, and every one of them is ready to crawl into a bed and sleep away the nightmare that this day has turned into. 

“How long for this one?” Jason asks, trying his hardest not to let his foul mood creep into his tone. 

“Fifteen minutes,” Bruce replies. “Just a little longer.”

“Man,” Jason says, slouching where he stands next to one of the drains in the floor. “I know you’re all about being Mr. Prepared, and all, but damn, B. You really outdid yourself with this whole setup.”

“It’s necessary,” Tim says, before yawning so wide his jaw pops on one side. “‘S...so many kinds of pathogens...don’t want to risk the kind you  _ don’t _ disinfect for being the one that you got on you. If it’s a level four pathogen, you’ll just...pretty much die.”

_ “Not _ ideal,” says Jason.

“Not ideal,” Tim agrees. 

“Lets table the talk about dying,” Babs says, giving up on combing tangles out of her hair with her fingers. Cass leans heavily on Babs’s shoulder, almost asleep where she stands. 

Bruce clears his throat. 

“We all have to strip,” he says, clearly uncomfortable but trying to hide it. “Everything. All the way.”

“Even underwear?” Babs asks, looking resigned, like she already knows she won’t like the answer. 

“Even underwear,” Bruce confirms. “Everything gets incinerated. Throw them in that chute over there. Girls on that side of the room, and the three of us over here. No one peeks, or you’re benched for three months. Understood?”

They all make various grunts and noises of agreement and start to tug off their base layers and underclothes. Tim wads his up into a ball and chucks it into the chute Bruce pointed at, feeling himself flushing all the way to his ears even though he trusts everyone here with his life. And if he was injured in the field, it’s not like they wouldn’t see things anyway—whatever was necessary. But being naked in a cold glass room when stress is already high is just—

Well. It sucks. 

“Grab the closest size of scrubs to your body,” Bruce tells them. “There should be plenty, and there are only five of us in here. Take whichever pieces are most comfortable.”

Tim yanks a set of small pants and a matching top from one of the recessed cubbies in the wall, and pulls them on as quickly as possible. He’s just tying the drawstring on the pants when Bruce warns, “Starting,” and the spray from up above begins to fall. 

Everything is normal, for the first couple dozen seconds. The mist re-soaks Tim’s hair, and he sighs as it’s quickly plastered down to his neck for the fourth time that night. The scrubs are a bit resistant to water, but quickly start to soak through. He settles in for a boring fifteen minutes, starting to zone out while he stares at one of the drains on the floor and tries not to shiver too much.

Then he feels something that he didn’t notice in the other showers when the layers of his uniform were still piled on. Not even in the last one, with only his reinforced spandex base layer between his skin and the chemical spray.

His arm  _ burns _ . 

For the second time that night, Tim’s blood freezes, his whole body slowing down to hinge on one moment, one sensation, ice racing down his spine. 

Tim’s right hand catches his left, yanking his arm up to just inches away from his face, and he tunes out everything around him as he searches frantically, desperately, throwing a plea to the universe  _ please, please no, _ and finally spots it. 

Right where the edge of his gloves rest, on the inside of his pale forearm, just next to the freckle he’s had since he was a toddler, there’s a tiny, tiny cut. 

It stings. It burns. It’s getting irritated, in the unending stream of something that smells a lot like alcohol, and Tim can see the edges slowly reddening, bit by bit. 

“Bruce,” he breathes. But nothing comes out. His lips are moving in silence, and he presses his thumb hard against the cut, looks up, and tries again.  _ “Bruce.” _

Bruce turns from where he was just saying something to Jason, and Tim must have some kind of look on his face, because Bruce immediately stills and slips into Concerned Adult Mode.

“Tim,” he says, “What is it?”

Tim stares mutely, and off to the right Cass suddenly stiffens as she takes in the scene. Tim is trying to remember what he meant to say,  _ think, Tim, come on,  _ and he glances back down to see why his arm hurts so much, and—

Oh. Right. Right. It’s just that he’s probably going to die, and all, and Bruce should probably know—it’s only polite—and it was that  _ kid,  _ that Tim helped, it must have been the kid, he thought the knife didn’t hit anything, but a cut  _ this _ small—

Bruce’s hands are on his cheeks, gently pressing, and he’s saying Tim’s name. And suddenly it’s as if Tim drops back into reality, because there’s sound and cold and a thousand thoughts running through his brain, and the most important is that he can’t be touched. 

_ “No,”  _ Tim gasps, and he wrenches away from Bruce like he’s being burned, falls back into the thin layer of run-off on the floor with a splash. He scrambles backwards on all fours like a crab until his shoulders ram a wall. “Don’t touch me!”

“Tim,” Bruce says, concerned and a little hurt and wary all at once. He takes a step forward. “What’s wrong?”

“Stop,” Cass says. Bruce freezes. 

“Tim,” he pleads. Jason steps up beside him, eyes wide. 

Tim’s hand is gripping his arm so tightly his knuckles are white. He’s probably going to leave bruises. Not that it matters, at tips point. But. Still. 

“I have a cut,” he whispers. And the chemical shower is loud, but not loud enough to drown out his words. Bruce is three entire skin shades paler in half a second. 

“I have a cut,” Tim says again, a little bit more loudly. “On my arm. From tonight.” He licks his lips. “I didn’t know. Bruce. I didn’t know. I’m sorry, I didn’t  _ know.” _

“Tim,” Bruce says,  _ “Tim,” _ and it sounds like something is  _ broken _ . 

Tim squeezes his eyes shut, breathing through the rising terror, the what-if-what-if-what- _ ifs _ flashing through his mind at light speed, thinking of everything he’s ever learned about smallpox and Lassa fever, and Marburg and anthrax and Ebola, trying to remember how many times he’s touched his family members tonight since they were in the city, seeing a few pathogens in his bloodstream hijacking a cell, and replicating and replicating and replicating—

And there are hands on his cheeks, again, and—what?

Tim’s eyes snap open. And there’s Bruce. Kneeling in front of him, on the freezing, wet floor, cupping Tim’s face in his hands, staring Tim right in the eyes. 

“No,” Tim says, desperately, and he tenses, about to throw himself sideways, but Bruce just presses his hands more firmly along Tim’s jaw, thumbs swiping across his cheekbones, ignoring Jason’s strangled noise behind them. 

“Tim,” Bruce says. “I am not leaving you alone.”

“If I’m infected—”

“You won’t be contagious yet,” Bruce says. “Come on, Tim. You know the science. You know how this works. You’ve done projects on epidemics. If you’re infected, you’re in the incubation stage. You’re not going to hurt me right now.”

“But it’s still not safe,” Tim says, tearing up against his will. His hands reach up and latch on to Bruce’s wrists. “I can’t, Bruce, I can’t—if you get sick—I can’t lose you, I can’t lose you too, you can’t leave me, Bruce  _ please—” _

“Shhh,” Bruce says. “Shhh. Timmy. Breathe.” He sits next to Tim and bundles him into his lap when Tim starts to cry. “It’s going to be okay.”

“You don’t know that,” Tim gets out between cries. 

“I do,” Bruce says grimly. “Whatever this is, however bad it is...if you do get sick, or any of us do—you are my son. I’ll tear the planet apart until I find the cure for this. I will not lose you.” 

“I don’t want to die,” Tim whispers, and Bruce presses him more tightly into his soaked scrubs. 

“You’re not going to die,” Bruce says, firmly. “We’re not going to let you. And until you definitely show symptoms, we’re going to stay hopeful. You’re not sick yet, sweetheart. We have time. I need you to hold on. You can’t give up, Tim, understand? You have to decide to fight.”

“I know,” Tim says. He sniffs hard a few times, scrubbing at his eyes, trying to get the chemicals out of them from where the liquid drips down off his hair. “I know, I’m sorry. I won’t give up, B, I just—I’m scared.”

“I know,” Bruce says. He rests his chin on top of Tim’s head, while Jason, Babs, and Cass carefully scoot in on either side of him and lean in to join the huddle. “Tim,” he says softly. “I’ve got you. It’s going to be okay. Trust me one more time?”

Those two small sentences. How many times has Tim heard them from Robin, from Batman, from his brother, from his father? After all these months, after the danger and joy and the lessons and injuries and the laughing and tears and  _ all _ the ups and downs, after BatWatch, and after Robin, and every step of the way along Tim’s path to join this family, Bruce has walked it with him through thick and thin. He’s never left. He’s gone running after Tim over and over, caught him when he’s fallen, made things better, never given up. Never given up on Tim. 

Tim wraps his arms around Bruce, takes a deep, shuddering breath, and turns his face into Bruce’s shoulder. 

“I trust you, Bruce,” he whispers. “I trust you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drink something, eat if you haven’t recently, and take any meds you need!!!!! I believe in you! 
> 
> Also if you want to yell about the story or ask exactly how freakishly much knowledge I have on biowarfare and Level 4 pathogens feel free to hit me up on Tumblr over at @goldkirk!!


	19. some die young (but you better hold on)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rest of the night, featuring tired Batfam, sneaky Tim, cranky Steph, and Excellent Batdad Bruce.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THERE IS NOTHING SUPER STRESSFUL IN THIS CHAPTER I PROMISE no one is even sick yet and there are no major plot developments. Just lots of FEELINGS
> 
> Chapter title is from Some Die Young by Laleh.

When all is said and done, they trudge out of the decontamination area after one final scrub-down with regular soap in individual shower stalls, long and  _ thorough _ and with periodic reminders from Bruce to not miss a single spot. Alfred, the blessed man he is, has pajamas for each of them already laid out and waiting on a long bench next to a very, very wound-up Dick. 

_ “Go,” _ he snaps, practically hurling the first pile of clothes at Bruce’s face and shoving him in the direction of the cave’s changing area. “Get dressed  _ quick _ because if I can’t hug you in two minutes or less I’m coming in there  _ myself, _ so help me  _ God, _ B.”

“Dickie,” Bruce says softly, stopping and turning to pull Dick in for a hug anyway, only a thick towel between them. “It’s okay. We’re all home safe. I’m sorry we scared you so badly.”

Tim is picking up his own soft pajamas in a tired daze, and barely catches Dick’s words that are muffled into the side of Bruce’s neck. 

“The radio said—they called it in, we heard  _ missiles _ from the Coast Guard, and I thought—I know what we do at night is dangerous, but...I thought this was finally it, I thought they were going to blow the city—Bruce, I can’t lose you  _ too.” _

“I’m sorry,” Bruce says, again, and his large fingers rub gently through the back of Dick’s messy hair. “I’m sorry, sunshine. I’m all right. I’m here now.”

Dick is silent for a moment before mumbling something else that Tim can’t quite catch, and then Bruce is pressing a firm kiss to his forehead and striding away towards one of the changing cubicles with one last “You did well with the Justice League and police tonight, Dick. I’m proud of you,” trailing behind. 

Dick stands there for a moment, gaze following Bruce till the curtain shuts behind him, and just breathes, shoulders slumping down like the weight of the world has rolled off of them suddenly. Then he whips around, suddenly, with a determined look on his face, and stares the rest of them down. 

_ “You,”  _ Dick says, stalking up to Jason. “I was so worried, but you did  _ so well, _ Jay, you reacted so fast and helped get everyone to the Batmobile safely. You were amazing, little brother, I’m so  _ proud _ of you.”

“Oh, god,” Jason mumbles, and then he’s being yanked into one of Dick’s patented koala-mode total-envelopment hugs. 

Tim, even though he’s still feeling more wrung-out and numb than anything else, can’t help having a laugh at Jason’s expense. 

“You too, Timmy,” Dick commands. 

“But—” Tim starts to protest.

“Come on. Over here. I need a both-brothers hug.”

“No!” Tim snaps, then. “I—Dick. Please don’t take this wrong. I love you so much and I would love to hug you right now, but unless Bruce gives it the okay, I can’t. I can’t risk it, okay? If I’m infected I’m not gonna get you sick too.”

“Bruce said you’re not contagious yet,” Dick argues. 

“Yeah,” snorts Tim, “and Bruce was also trying to keep a panicking teenager calm while stuck in a decontamination shower for the next ten minutes straight. Just—hang on till Bruce comes back out, okay? And then you can hug me all you want once he says so.”

“Fine,” Dick says. “I’m holding you to that. I’ll put on PPE if that’s what it takes, but you’re getting a hug. They’re required after nights as bad as this.”

Babs clutches her small pile close and tugs the underwear and shorts on under the towel, the shirt on over it, far past caring about modesty, and then chucks the towel into a basket Alfred left nearby. She flops down onto the floor, knees up, arms sprawled, halfway underneath the bench and already closing her eyes against the world. Cass emerges from under an enormous blanket she snatched from Stephanie’s futon, already fully dressed in her pajamas, and throws her towel right on top of Dick’s head as he stands still facing Jason and Tim. 

“Me,” she says, grinning. 

“Oh,  _ you,  _ huh,” Dick says as he whips around, grinning back. “If you’re that insistent…” He stalks across the three steps between them and scoops her up, wrapping his arms around her mid-spine and lifting her straight off the ground into a spinning hug. Cass shrieks, then laughs, then wiggles around futilely as Dick spins them more till she’s dizzy and giggling and stumbling like a toddler when he finally drops her back to the floor. 

Bruce reaches them then. 

“Having fun?” he asks, straight-faced.

Jason grumbles tiredly, and Dick shoots Bruce a smile. Cass just wraps herself up in the blanket again and sits down on the floor to wait. 

Bruce lets out a quiet groan as he lowers himself to the floor next to her, back propped against the bench, and gestures towards the changing cubicles. “Jason, Tim, go get changed. We need to talk about next steps as soon as you’re back.”

The two of them head off, Tim shooting Bruce a quick glance, beginning to open his mouth and gesture at Dick, but Bruce cuts him off with a small shake of his head. 

“I heard while I was changing. Go get dressed, Tim. Hug him after,” he says gently. “Dick can wait one minute more.”

Tim blows a piece of hair off his nose and heads off to change, his shoulders losing just a little of the tension they’ve begun to carry like a suit of armor. 

Behind him, Dick immediately begins to sing off key, “ _ I can’t wait one minute more, _ the sun does shine, the sun does shine—“

_ “Dick,” _ Bruce groans.

“You totally set me up for that one,” Dick is saying, as Tim tugs a curtain across the rod and starts to shimmy into his underwear and flannel pajama pants. “Come on, B, you know how this household works.” 

Tim smiles. Gets his head stuck in the Under Armor shirt trying to find the neck hole.

“I claim extenuating circumstances,” Bruce protests. “You can’t hold me to my usual standard.”

“Such as?”

“My children almost died tonight. I am emotionally distraught.” 

Tim jams his head through the neck hole more forcefully than is probably necessary. 

Right. 

That. 

The whole... _ everything _ . And listen, honestly, it’s not like this should really be all that surprising. They’re vigilantes. In  _ Gotham _ . It’s their job description to deal with completely batshit-crazy (pun very much intended, thanks) villains who come up with all kinds of dangerous schemes. Except for the Riddler, Tim guesses, Nygma kind of gets a pass. He’s just riddling. No one really gets hurt, so he’s like...on thin ice. 

But this is…

Tim takes a moment, squeezes his eyes shut and finally allows himself to crumple alone against the cubicle wall, in the corner, cold metal biting through the thin material of his shirt to freeze his back and shoulders while he hunches into the smallest ball he can form.

Tim’s had this feeling for a long time, now, that he was going to die young. Intuition, premonition, call it what you will, it doesn’t really matter in the end.. He just  _ knows _ . But if it wasn’t something like, oh, say, cancer or something, he figured it would at least be a freak Gotham accident—or more recently, some moment of sacrifice on patrol, where he could at least do some good in the end. He just...he knows he’s not meant to grow old and live long and prosper and all that. 

_ But does it have to be like this? _ Tim thinks.  _ We don’t even know for sure what it is, but it’s definitely a pathogen. It’ll be—it’ll be smallpox, or tularemia, maybe, or a new mutated influenza? Or Nipah, did someone get a stock of Nipah and make it transmissible through the air? Or it could be Ebola...no, they wouldn’t go that far, no way. There are antibody drugs now, no one would gene edit Ebola to be incurable again just to unleash it on a major city. It would end up sweeping around the globe with so many fatalities, you’d have to purposefully want unbelievable numbers of people to die. God. These are all terrible options. What a crappy way to go.  _

There’s no meaning in it. Tim wants—he  _ knows _ he’s not meant to live long, it’s not in the cards, but he’s been getting happier, you know? Things are better, Bruce tells him sometimes how much he’s been improving since he first came to stay at the manor, and Tim...he wants his life to mean something, that’s all anyone really wants, isn’t it? He wants to at least have a meaningful  _ death,  _ if he can’t have a meaningful life by the time he dies. 

_ Looks like I might not get either, _ he thinks grimly.  _ I guess at this point, if I’m infected, the most I can hope for is a quicker death rather than a long one.  _

Tim takes half a minute to get himself under rock-solid control, face smooth and breathing steady, and stands, body language projecting just enough stress to not make Bruce suspicious that he’s hiding something, but not so much so that anyone thinks he needs comforting. 

From this point on, Tim’s mission is to keep the rest of his family safe. They have to worry about themselves, and about all the people in Gotham, and the rest of the world. He needs to take care of himself as much as possible so they don’t waste time on him when they’re needed elsewhere. 

_ I can handle it. I can do this. It’s just like riding a bike, right? I’m good at hiding. This’ll be like—my final encore. _ Tim straightens his shoulders and sweeps the curtain aside, steps across the cave to join the others like he’s squaring up for a fight. 

_ Let the others think that I’m ready and determined to fight this off,  _ he thinks.  _ And yeah, I’ll give it my best shot. It’s not like I want to die from this. But...the real fight isn’t here. It’s out there, with the Joker, and whoever else is behind this. It’s on the streets, with all the people who will die if we can’t fix this. And I can’t...I can’t let them down. This is the only thing I can do now. This is what I’ve got left, if I get sick—I can make sure that the protectors are still protecting. I can hunt down information until I can’t anymore, and I can be okay for as long as possible. I’ve lied to Batman for years. I’ve sneaked, I’ve hidden, I’ve—I’ve run circles around every authority in this city with fewer resources and a bit more sleep than I have now. I can do it,  _ he thinks. _ I have to do it. I’ll be okay. At all costs, I am not the priority here. There are people depending on us. All of us.  _ Tim swallows, and steps into place next to Dick, who slings his arms around Tim faster than Tim can blink. 

Tim hesitates for a moment, arms halfway up, sticking out awkwardly. Then he throws himself into the hug hard, squeezing Dick, face digging into his brother’s chest. He takes a deep breath, memorizing this feeling and Dick’s scent and warmth like it’s the last time he’ll ever get to do this. 

_ Gotham is counting on us, _ he tells himself.  _ The world is counting on us. I can’t let us fail.  _

* * *

“We don’t know what the pathogen is,” Bruce begins, exhaustion coloring every syllable as he speaks, slumped on one of the Lovesacs. “Our contact will tip the Justice League off before any announcement goes public, and this is top priority at the moment, so I expect we’ll hear something by mid-morning at the latest. It won’t be an exact strain, but we’ll know what category of virus or bacterium, at least.”

Jason opens his mouth to say something, but gets taken over by a yawn instead. 

“Yes, Jason?” Bruce asks.

“Are we going back out?” Jason slurs. “After...after sleep?”

“No,” says Bruce. Dick and Babs immediately sit upright from where they’re slumped on one of the old sofas, looking ready to argue, but Bruce holds a hand out and growls, “Listen. This is a situation far, far more dangerous than what you’re normally dealing with on the streets. Everything is currently unknown, except for the fact that we’re dealing with an potentially deadly biological terror attack and an  _ incredibly _ dangerous enemy who has no qualms about risking thousands to millions of lives on a whim. This is Justice League level. You’re staying home.”

“I’m an adult!” Dick says hotly. “You don’t get to tell me what to do, Bruce! It’s my choice whether I go out or not.” 

“Me too!” Jason interjects from where he’s tangled on another Lovesac with Tim and a lightly-snoring Cass.

“You are,” Bruce acknowledges. “And you’re also my children. I can’t legally stop you, but I will beg, on my knees if necessary, for you to stay here, with your siblings, until we have a better handle on the situation. We don’t even know yet if the pathogen got carried on the wind, potentially for miles to other cities, or if it’s localized in Gotham. For all we know, you breathed it in while driving here.”

“Bruce—“

“Dick,” Bruce cuts him off. “You’re an outstanding hero in your own right. You’ve proven your competence a thousand times over, you’re a great leader and talented in so many areas of our work. I know you could handle things if you went out there. It’s not  _ your _ ability in question, it’s mine.”

Dick stares, mouth hanging open slightly. 

“If even just one of you is out there, right now, I don’t...I wouldn’t be able to focus on the mission,” Bruce says. “I’d be liable to get a teammate hurt or miss important evidence because I’ll be consumed by constant fear for you. I can’t be anything less than perfect right now out in Gotham. The world is watching. Every citizen is depending on the government and the Justice League to fix this. Either I go out alone with the League, or no one in this family goes out at all.” He looks at Dick, at Jason, at Barbara, one at a time, meeting their eyes solidly. “Please,” he says. “Just for now. Just until we know how to make this safer, and are sure none of us are sick.”

“Especially that,” Alfred interjects, then, as serious as they’ve ever heard him. “If any of you have caught the pathogen, the worst thing you can possibly do now is run yourself ragged chasing down villains around Gotham and the rest of the world.”

“Well that goes for you, too, B!” Jason snaps, making Cass jolt awake next to him, wide-eyed. “How do you think  _ we _ feel about you going out there again, without any of us to back you up and maybe with something deadly already in your blood or lungs?”

Bruce sighs, sitting up and hunching over to dig the heels of his palms into his eyes and rub hard several times. 

“Perhaps a compromise,” Alfred suggests, ever the family’s voice of reason. “Master Bruce. Surely the other League members would understand your need to spend time at home with your children at this time, should you only go out, say, a maximum of six hours each day?”

“But we have to—“

“Master Jason is quite correct,” Alfred cuts Bruce off. “Solving this situation is critical, indeed, but you cannot neglect your own health while forcing your children to care for yours.”

“Just because you’ve got a self-sacrificing streak the size of Alaska,” Babs says, groaning momentarily as she stretches and cracks her back, “doesn’t mean that you should act on it every time things get really bad. Just...pretend I’m Dad, for a sec, and imagine what he’d say to you— _ blah, blah,  _ something something city is only as healthy as its defender, self-care,  _ blah, blah, _ lots of sleep and water, you look like you haven’t seen a bed in two months, we’ll live for half a day without you, god forbid a human actually have human needs, sorry, forgot you magically altered yourself to be a literal man-bat,  _ blah, blah, blah, _ etc.” 

Bruce shoots both Babs and Alfred a look. “All right,” he says. “Point taken. Is six hours acceptable to you two? Jason? Dick?”

They grumble a vague sort of acceptance. 

“As long as you take us back out with you once it’s reasonable,” Dick demands.

Bruce nods.

“What now?” Tim asks quietly. “Are we self-isolating? Do we need to contact CPP or anything?”

“We need to contact your parents, first,” Bruce says. “Then we can contact our resource worker, and I suppose one of the hospitals, although we’ll likely be told to stay where we are anyway. And Barbara, feel free to call your dad before or after you sleep. He knows you’re here and safe, and told Alfred we’d sort out tomorrow whether you should stay here for now or find a way back to the city to your house.”

“I ought to call him before I crash,” Babs says. “I want to hear he’s really all right for now, and I’m sure he wants the same. And somebody’s got to remind him he needs food and not just coffee and water for the next twelve hours while he he feeds everyone on staff except himself.”

“He’s lucky you have you,” Bruce says. “You two do a good job of looking out for each other.”

“It’s how we make things work,” she says simply.

“What about the dogs? And Teacup?” Tim asks.

“There’s no reason to stay away from them for now,” Bruce says. “If anyone becomes symptomatic, then no more contact with the pets. But until then, it should be all right to keep them around you.”

“We ought to let the dogs run in a sectioned off portion of the caves, at least for today,” Alfred says. “The less air we bring in from outside, the better, until we better know what we’re dealing with.” 

“I agree.” Bruce nods. “We’ll set something up once the kids go to bed. And as for all of you,” he says, glancing across the tired faces sprawled across furniture in front of him,  _ “bed. _ Access to cable and satellite is off. You get to keep your phones and laptops, but I’m shutting off WiFi and the family data plan until at least twelve hours from now. You need to sleep, and the only information going around right now is going to be speculation and fear-mongering.” 

_ That’s fine, _ Tim thinks. A pain, sure, but he’s kept his own data plans on the side. He’ll just have to dig out one of his secondary devices tonight, and he’ll still be able to work. 

“Why me too?” Steph grumbles. “I was already sleeping. It’s not like I was out running around the city like the rest of you. I’m too awake now, I want to watch something before I go back to sleep.”

_ “You _ are still recovering from two gunshot wounds,” Bruce says, pinning Steph with one of his patented Dad Stares. “You need rest as well. Come on. I’m carrying you. Everybody up.” 

They haul each other and their own drowsy selves up with a chorus of groans and grumbles and a couple collisions with the corners of furniture, and head up the stairs to the manor.

Bruce deposits children from the tired conga line into various bedrooms in what ends up being more or less oldest-to-youngest age order. Dick splits off with a tired wave, Babs ducks into the guest room she always prefers, Jason is gently shooed into his room after one last stern glare at both Tim and Bruce and a demand that they both tell him immediately if something gets weird with Tim overnight or they’ll regret it. Cass gets a long, tight hug from Bruce after the night she’s had, and a short but solid kiss on the cheek from Tim, and then she’s shutting her door behind herself and Ace, bracing herself for what’s almost sure to be a long night of nightmares that Bruce will end up helping her through. Steph gets shoved gently through her doorway and tucked into bed, still complaining mildly all the way, but despite her protests Tim has to clamp a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing, because her insult trails off mid-sentence and she’s faintly snoring even before Bruce manages to shut the bedroom door. 

And then it’s Tim’s turn. 

* * *

Bruce pauses for a moment outside Tim’s door, one hand on the knob, and Tim looks down at the old carpet lining the hall, eyes tracing the whorls of faded ivy edging. He can see Nova’s head bobbing around at the edge of his vision. She must be catching some leftover scent from earlier in the day. 

“Can we talk?” Tim asks. “For a minute?”

“Of course,” Bruce says, quietly. “Inside?”

Tim nods. 

Bruce’s hands propel Tim by his shoulders all the way over to his bed, where Bruce turns down the covers and waits patiently for Tim to scoot under them and settle in before sitting down on the edge of the bed, angled towards Tim. Nova hops up to lie by Tim’s feet, and she’s asleep in less than a minute, a warm dead weight bumping against Tim’s leg. 

“Tonight was...a lot,” Bruce offers. 

“Yeah,” Tim snorts. “You can say that again.” He tips his head back against the headboard and stares at the ceiling. 

“I didn’t notice the cut,” he says. “I remember—it was a little kid. How stupid is that? He was just older than like, toddler age, and he was  _ prepared _ , he had this pocketknife and someone showed him how to use it. I thought it was fine. But I guess I was too distracted in the moment to realize.”

“You were a little busy,” Bruce says. “And it’s such a small cut. Between the size, and your adrenaline, and the on and off dissociation—don’t think I didn’t notice, buddy, I definitely caught that—I’m not surprised at all you didn’t feel it until the very end. 

“It was wet before, though,” Tim says, almost too quiet to hear. “It had to be. I had layers, but. There’s no way. My sleeves were soaked through.”

“I know,” says Bruce. He picks up one of Tim’s hands, squeezes it tightly. “I know. But we hold on to hope as long as we can.”

Tim nods, but he can’t meet Bruce’s eyes. 

“What about Jason?” he asks. “And Babs? Their eyes are a big risk, aren’t they. But I don’t think they really realize yet.”

Bruce lets out a long breath of air and scoots up the bed to lean against the headboard next to Tim. They stare across at the opposite wall together. 

“Yeah,” Bruce admits. “Babs got her goggles on quickly, but there’s no guarantee. And I doubt Jason touched his eyes when he took the mask off, but, well. It only takes a very tiny droplet, for some things. I’m sitting them down to talk about that more once we know for sure what was in the bombs.”

“What do you think it was?” Tim asks. “I know you don’t  _ know _ . But if you’re making an educated guess. What’re the top three?”

Bruce turns, then, and looks at him almost severely. “If it was any other person in this house,” he says slowly. “I wouldn’t even consider answering that. The only thing that question is good for is agonizing over possibilities all night. But since it’s you,” he sighs, “I know you’ll just do that more if you don’t have it narrowed down. Sometimes you memorize too much, Tim.”

“If I have contingency plans, then I can’t be caught totally off guard. No one can—nothing can blindside me again. I’m not gonna stop.”

“I know. That’s part of what makes you such a good detective. But you need to find a space, over the next few years, where you have a balance between researching enough to know what you need and not researching so much to the point that you get overwhelmed with worry about possibilities. It’s a hard balance to learn, and it took me time, too, but it’s important. Otherwise you’ll drive yourself crazy trying to prepare for everything when you just can’t.”

“Yeah,” Tim agrees, but he can’t quite cover up the resignation in his voice, apparently, because Bruce straightens and tugs him around a little. 

“Hey,” he says, firmly, forcing Tim to meet his eyes. “Listen to me, Timothy Jackson Drake. You are extremely strong. You’re incredibly smart. You’re a fighter through and through, and while I hope to god you didn’t get infected tonight, if you did, you are going to make it through. If you give up before you even start, there’s no way you survive. But if you refuse to stop fighting, you can survive things that should kill you. You know the statistics and facts about a lot of these pathogens, and they’re overwhelming. But those don’t tell you about the people who survive them. Because there are survivors, Timmy, and if you get sick, you’re going to be one of them. I’m not letting you go.”

Tim can’t let himself get too much hope. He doesn’t want to die, he doesn’t want to hurt everyone like that, but his odds aren’t great in most of the scenarios he keeps running through his head. 

“Bruce,” he asks again, leaning his head against Bruce’s shoulder. “What do you think it is?”

Bruce is silent for maybe half a minute after that, quietly rubbing a thumb in circles around Tim’s shoulder, both of them so still they could be frozen statues except for their slow breathing. 

“Maybe smallpox,” Bruce whispers. “Not anthrax, or tularemia, I don’t think it was bacterial. Could be a bad influenza. Or a hemorrhagic fever—probably Marburg, or Ebola.” 

Tim shivers involuntarily. “Those are all pretty shitty,” he whispers back. 

“Language,” Bruce chides, but there’s no real conviction behind it. “They are. This is a bioweapon. Someone wants to cause a lot of damage.”

“Why would the Joker do this?” Tim demands. “I know he’s all about chaos and violence and everything, but this could—it’s not just Gotham, a virus gone wrong can be the next Black Death and wipe out a huge chunk of the population! Except we’ve got air travel and everything now, so it would probably be even worse!”

“I don’t know, Tim,” says Bruce, wrapping both arms around Tim, whose whole body is a livewire of frustration and fear and anger. “I don’t know why some people do the evil things they do. Some people lash out because they were hurt, and they haven’t learned to ever deal with it. Some people’s brains never developed in the ways that give them the ability to have empathy, compassion, things like that. But I really don’t know. We don’t always get answers for why people do the things they do, even on scales this large. We may never know. But we’re going to do our best to stop it either way.”

“There has to be a cure,” Tim says. “No one would create a virus deadly enough to be a weapon and not have a failsafe for themself. Even someone who just wants to watch the world burn. You can’t watch it burn if you’re dead.”

“That’s true,” Bruce agrees. “There probably  _ is _ a treatment somewhere. I’m sure there isn’t a cure, if this is a virus, because that’s just how viruses work, but there must be some kind of vaccine or drug treatment. We just need to find it.”

“I’m helping,” Tim says, not leaving room for argument. “I know we can’t go out, and I don’t want to, anyway, the last thing I want to do is infect anyone. But I’m going to help with tracking and research.”

“We’ll all be grateful,” Bruce says calmly. “And I’ll bet you’re a key player in solving this mess. But not tonight, sweetheart.” Bruce pushes himself off the bed, and ruffles Tim’s hair as he stands. “You need sleep. We’re going to have a busy day as soon as we get more information in the morning, and you need that beautiful brain of yours in peak condition for the hunt we’re about to go on. So sleep. Got it?”

“Yeah,” Tim mumbles, forcing himself to not flinch away as Bruce presses a kiss to his forehead. 

It’s okay. Not contagious yet. You won’t hurt him.

“Good,” Bruce says, a hint of warning steel in his tone. “Good night, Tim. Love you.”

“Love you too, B,” Tim says as Bruce tugs the door shut behind him. “See you in a few hours.”

* * *

Bruce makes rounds three more times that night, between calls to officials, communications with the Justice League and other solo heroes, and a decent stint calming Cass down from some of her worst nightmares in the past month. 

The second time around, he gets a feeling that something is fishy in the state of Denmark. Bruce slips into Batman mode, near-soundless as he creeps down the hallway, checking each room in turn, but nothing is amiss. 

Then he reaches Tim’s room, and there’s just the faintest, tiniest glow under the door. Bruce holds in his instinctive sigh and mentally counts backwards from twenty, then grips the doorknob and counts to three. 

He flings the well-oiled door open as suddenly as possible, ducking his head through the doorway just in time to see a very startled Tim crack his elbow against the drywall and kick his laptop—and the duvet it was under—straight off the bed with a clatter. Nova is well-trained enough to resist the urge to bark, but she does jump up to all fours in surprise. 

_ “Ohmygod!” _ Tim whisper-shrieks, scowling at Bruce as soon as he’s gathered the shreds of his remaining dignity. “Why would you  _ do that.” _

“You,” Bruce hisses, “are supposed to be asleep. Not straining your immune system. And…” he picks up Tim’s laptop from where it landed sideways on the floor, “...scrolling through homeland security PDFs on bioterrorism scenarios. Tim.”    
“We don’t have time to waste!” Tim protests. 

Bruce very carefully closes the laptop and digs through Tim’s sheets till he finds Tim’s secondary phone, and sets them both on a shelf on the other side of the room with very deliberate, calm movements. Then he comes back over to the bed, where Tim is perched like a wary bird, ready to fly at a moment’s notice, his knees drawn up defensively in front of his chest. 

Bruce keeps his breathing slow and even and kneels down next to Tim, one leg at a time, until he’s just barely below Tim’s eye level. He reaches up and takes Tim’s face gently between his hands, bringing their foreheads together until they’re just touching, and closes his eyes. 

“Tim,” he says, softly. “I don’t think you understand how serious I am right now.”

“I  _ know _ I’m supposed to—”

“Tim,” he says again. Tim quiets. “You are my child. Maybe not by adoption, but in every way that matters, you’re my son. Remember the day you went and met up with Stephanie, and we had that talk in the cave? And I said I would die for you? I mean that very, very seriously. If you’re in danger, and there’s any way I can save you by giving myself up instead, I’m going to do it. And right now, you’re in very, very serious danger. I know it. You know it. Alfred knows it. The others do, to some extent, and they’ll get a much clearer understanding of the situation soon. But I think you’re hiding from the truth, a little bit, right now, because it’s too big to handle tonight.”

“I’m not—you can’t just—I understand perfectly—” Tim cuts himself off with a scowl. “Of course I understand the situation! I’m not hiding! I’m just trying to be realistic!”

“Being  _ realistic _ would be you realizing that, in the face of the very real possibility that you have something like smallpox or Ebola, your body needs every single advantage you can give it if you want to fight one of these viruses off. And it would be you giving your body plenty of sleep, water, food, and vitamins while you can right now, so that you don’t sabotage yourself before the battle starts for real. But you’re not being realistic, Tim, you’re trying to work through the night when you hardly have any leads to go on. You’re mostly just reading hypotheticals. All those will do is stress you out, which is the very last thing you need right now.”

“I’m gathering—!”

_ “Tim!”  _ Bruce says. He pulls back enough to see all of Tim’s face, never letting go for a second. “Look at me, sweetheart. Come on. Open your eyes and look at me for a minute.” 

Tim does, slowly. 

“You are so precious,” Bruce says softly. “To me. To Alfred. To all of your siblings, to everyone who knows you at school and all the places you volunteer. To every person in Gotham you’ve helped over the years, as BatWatch and as Robin and as Tim Drake. You are so important, Tim. You’re so, so loved. We’ve fought for you this far, haven’t we? And if you do get sick, we’ll keep fighting for you then. You’re not allowed to die. I won’t allow you to give in to fear before you even try to fight.”

Tim’s eyes start to well up, suddenly, his chest tightening like he’s being squeezed by a boa constrictor. (He should know. Been there, done that. Twice. Poison Ivy had a  _ phase _ .)

Bruce pulls him in for a full hug. “I’m not letting you go. I’m not letting you let yourself go. This is me looking out for your safety while you can’t, all right? Just like we talked about on the museum roof.”

“I’m sorry,” Tim croaks out, through tears he can’t stop. “I don’t—I didn’t think—Bruce, I don’t think I can fight off something this big. I think this is it. I have a feeling.”

“Feelings are just feelings,” Bruce says firmly, squeezing Tim a little tighter. “They’re there to help guide us, but they aren’t infallible. They’re influenced by so many things. People do survive these, Tim, and you can be one of them. We’re going to get as many odds stacked in your favor as we can, all right? But you need to let us help you, and listen to Alfred and Leslie and me.”

“I know,” Tim mumbles, apologetically. “I know that. I just...sorry. I just feel like...like it’s not gonna—I know I’m not gonna live all that long, and this is so big.”

Bruce puts a little space between them again, breaking the hug but keeping his hands on Tim’s shoulders, leaning back till he can see Tim’s face again. He frowns just a little. 

“What do you mean, sweetheart?” he asks. “You know you’re not going to live long?”

“I…” Tim tries to find a way to explain it that makes some sort of sense, that doesn’t sound stupid, but he comes up empty. He shrugs, a little helplessly. “I don’t know, I just, I’ve felt for ages like I’m going to die young, and I’m already fifteen, only a couple of years left till I’d be an adult, so—I just know, I don’t know!”

Bruce appears a little pained, but manages to give Tim a solid, reassuring look. “There’s a symptom some people get after trauma that’s called a sense of a foreshortened future. It’s when, for some reason, a person ends up feeling like their life is going to be cut short. Dick dealt with that for several years before he finally mentioned something about it in front of us. He didn’t think to before, because to him it felt like just a part of life. It was just a truth, like the sky was blue or he hated broccoli and loved bananas. But it’s not a true thing. It’s an effect of trauma. You do not have to die young, and you can eventually stop feeling like you will if you’re willing to work on it with Dinah and the rest of us.”

Tim frowns, searching Bruce’s face for a few moments. 

“That’s—that’s a thing?” he asks. “It’s not just me?”

“No,” Bruce reassures him. “Not even a little bit. Jason had it too, for a little while, but his was a bit more situational, so it went away more easily. And I spent a few months terrified that the man who killed my parents was going to come find me to finish the job. I know it’s not quite the same, but you’re not alone, Tim. You don’t have to die just because you feel like you will.”

“Oh,” is all Tim can manage to say. 

“So,” Bruce goes on, even more gently than before. “That’s something for us to tackle later, when this has calmed down. But for now, can you try to trust us, and trust your body, and trust the hope that we’re going to be able to find a fix for the pathogen in time? Can you let me make sure you have the best fighting chance you can have? I know you’re used to doing things on your own, and taking care of yourself, especially when you get sick, but can you let me in a little bit for this, and trust me to keep you as safe and healthy as I can?”

To Bruce’s surprise, Tim blinks at him once, twice, and then absolutely crumples into heaving sobs as he throws himself at Bruce. 

“How do you know?” Bruce makes out, in the middle of some sobs. He’s rubbing firm circles around Tim’s back, slightly bewildered but not backing down. “How do you always know these things? It’s like—my brain does things, and then you—I don’t—”

Tim rapidly becomes unintelligible again after that until he finally quiets down a while later, worn out and almost dozing in Bruce’s lap. 

“Hey, sport,” Bruce murmurs into Tim’s ear while he heaves Tim up back onto the bed. “Let’s get you settled for the night, okay?”

“Okay,” Tim mumbles back, not bothering to open his puffy eyes. “Sorry, B, ‘m sorry.”

“I forgive you,” says Bruce, pulling the blankets up and gently guiding Nova to box Tim in, just the way he likes. “Tonight, you sleep until you don’t feel tired anymore, got it? If anything big happens, I promise I’ll come let you know. Trust me, Tim.” 

“I do,” Tim whispers. “I do trust you. Sorry. I’ll be better. I promise.”

“All I need you to do is try your best,” Bruce says, as he smooths Tim’s hair back and presses one last kiss to his forehead before standing to leave. “You don’t need to be perfect. Just always try to do a little better the next time. Your best is enough, okay? I love you. We’re going to beat this, Tim, I promise.”

“What if you have to, like...go all Impossible Voyage, and travel through someone’s body to beat up virus particles in the Batsuit?” Tim asks, with the hint of a real grin. 

“Even then,” Bruce says. “I’ll do that a thousand times if that’s what it takes. But that’s a problem for not tonight, hm? Go to sleep, sweetheart. The world will still be turning in the morning. I promise.”

“‘Kay, B,” Tim mumbles, burrowing so far under the covers Bruce can hardly see anything besides his eyes and a poof of hair. “Love you, Dad.”

“Love you too, Tim,” Bruce says, quietly, just as he pulls the door shut behind him. He looks down the hall, eyes lingering on each child’s door for just a moment before he finally steps towards his own room for the first time in the whole terrible night. “We’re going to be okay,” he promises, words swallowed up by the quiet of the still house, but not in a somber way. As if the house itself is listening. Alive, somehow, with the spirit of so much life it’s gotten used to hosting within itself. “We’re going to be okay,” he repeats, as he lays down on top of the covers not even bothering to take off his robe before closing his eyes and settling in. “We have to be.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hydrate yourself, eat something if you haven't in the last several hours, take any meds you need or forgot earlier, I believe in you!!! 
> 
> This MAY or may not wrap up in just 23 chapters. I might add another one or two on, depending on how drawn out certain parts get. Like this chapter! Which I didn't expect to write, aside from one scene. Oops?


	20. soldier on, headstrong into the storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Self-isolation isn't so bad, at the manor. There are some emotions, and a lot of shenanigans. Gotham City isn't doing well. The clock is steadily ticking away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scene I was so excited about on tumblr isn't even in this chapter, sorry, it's gotten SO LONG I had to split it! It'll be in the next chapter, instead. 
> 
> **Content Warning:** mentions of serious illness, no graphic detail. mention of dying child. 
> 
> Chapter title is from "Keep Your Eyes Open" by NEEDTOBREATHE

Tim wakes up to sun leaking around the edges of his curtains and Bruce sitting quietly in an armchair by his bed. It looks like the one they often shuffle from room to room, depending on who’s having the most nightmares or got hurt on patrol recently. 

Bruce’s head is tipped back, resting against the high back of the chair, eyes closed but tension lines present. So he’s not quite asleep--meditating, Tim guesses, or just resting his eyes after a long day and night. 

It doesn’t escape Tim’s notice that of all the places Bruce could be right now, he’s  _ here _ . In Tim’s room. Waiting for Tim to wake up. Which, on the one hand, is really nice. But on the other…

“Bruce,” Tim says, softly. He pushes himself up in the bed till his back rests against the headboard, and draws his knees up close.

Bruce’s eyes snap open, and he straightens. He meets Tim’s eyes, and Tim sees--there’s something  _ sharp  _ in Bruce’s face, this morning. Something dangerous, that usually only criminals see, something a little bit feral, a little bit wild, emotions that Bruce normally keeps a lid on except in the most extreme cases. It’s peeking out now. 

That’s...that’s not the best sign. 

“Tim,” Bruce says, voice pitched softly. He doesn’t speak again for several seconds, just watching Tim with softening eyes, worry lines just barely starting to show between his brows, and the sharpness retreats a little, replaced by just plain old Bruce. Tired, worried, still-looking-out-for-his-kids Bruce, who Tim bets didn’t get more than two hours of sleep while he let the rest of them get as much as they could. 

“You should take a nap,” Tim says, before he can remember to get his brain-to-mouth filter online for the day. 

Bruce’s lips quirk up for a moment. “Do I look that bad?” he asks. “Later, maybe. A nap sounds nice.”

Tim swallows, and his fingers reach to start picking at the edge of his blanket only to find a very awake Nova suddenly in the way, begging for morning scratches. He happily obliges. 

“Is everyone okay?” Tim asks. “I know it was just one night, but…” 

_ But  _ they don’t know what was in the bombs.  _ But  _ they don’t know if something was engineered to kill in hours, maybe, or if it’s an alien virus, or some kind of new lifeform that has unfamiliar rules.  _ But  _ Cass faced her worst nightmare last night, and she’s still only just learning how to handle the bad nights without hurting herself or Bruce on accident.  _ But  _ Jason took off his mask in the car.  _ But  _ Barbara doesn’t wear lenses in her cowl.  _ But  _ Tim worries. About everyone. All the time. Constantly. 

So yeah.  _ Is everyone okay. _

“No changes,” Bruce reassures him. “Cass had a hard time last night, but she got through all right. Alfred’s making her crepes right now for when she wakes up.”

“Good,” Tim says fervently. Alfred’s crepes are god-tier. If anything can make Cass feel a little better after a pretty restless night, it’ll be Alfred and his cooking and the way he always knows exactly how much or how little they need him to say. “And...the attack?” he asks, looking away from Bruce’s face, down at Nova. 

“Clark got the call from our contact about two hours ago,” Bruce says, and Tim fights not to tense up, because Bruce is using the voice he uses at crime scenes, for victims, for little kids, for scared people who need to stay calm. “They did a rush job, of course, and it’s not going to be released to the government or public for a little longer, until they double check with a supervisor. But they’re positive, they checked the samples thoroughly, and Clark trusts them with our lives. It’s Ebola.”

Tim freezes, his fingers stilling under Nova’s chin and behind one of her ears as his breath hitches. 

He knows. He knew this was a possibility, of course it was, Ebola is just--it’s not as transmissible, because it isn’t airborne like a cold, but it’s very dangerous, still emerging--it’s not a bad option for a bioweapon. He even expected it. He knew that smallpox or Ebola were the most likely candidates, but he just--

_ Bruce  _ saying it in the calm light of morning makes it real. There’s no more “maybe” to fall back on. No more “false alarm” theory, however unlikely it was. It’s real. It has a name. And that name is a 50-90% death rate, historically, and Tim has not really had the best dice rolls in the past few years, if he’s being honest, and it’s just--it’s a terrible way to go. But at the same time…

“We’ve got treatment for that, though,” Tim exclaims suddenly, a little bit of hope stirring, a little blood starting to warm his limbs again where it feels like his whole body turns to ice. “Right? We started with ZMapp and now there’s that one with the even higher survival rate--remer--regen-something? So we can treat people under compassionate use, even if it’s not fully through testing? And there’s the vaccine that got approved. They can give out however many doses we have in North America currently, right? And try to manufacture more? So maybe we can’t stop everyone from getting sick, but a lot of people could--”

“It’s not...it’s not the main strain, Tim,” Bruce says, cutting him off more gently than should be possible. “It’s not Ebola Zaire.” 

“Oh,” Tim says, quietly, his shoulders hunching again. “Well--is it one of the less bad ones, then? Or--did they figure out how to make the Reston strain make humans actually sick instead of just monkeys? Oh no. Bruce, is it  _ airborne?” _

“We still don’t know of  _ any _ Ebola strain being airborne,” Bruce says, quickly. “But no, Tim, it’s not any of the others that have gone around in previous outbreaks. This one is new. It’s only been recorded once before, in a spy left for dead by an unknown group a few years ago over in Oman. That incident was never announced outside of the intelligence community and a few consulting Ebola experts.” 

Tim feels like the world is slowly falling around him. Everything is fading colors and quieting sounds, except for where he sits on the bed, frozen in a slight hunch over Nova. Bruce’s voice is the most real thing he has left. 

“So...we don’t know how bad it is?” he asks, through numb lips. “It’s a totally new strain?”

“There’s a little data on the end stage, since they found the spy too late to save him,” Bruce says, voice as even as he can make it. “But other than that...no. Not yet.”

_ Yet, _ Tim thinks faintly.  _ Yet, yet, yet, no real information yet, not until people start to get sick. Not until Gotham starts to die. _

There’s pressure on his legs. Nova’s nudged them down onto the bed and clambered up into his lap, started nosing gently at his neck and giving him a lick here and there. His hands come up slowly to wrap around her. 

“How do we know the antibody drugs won’t work on this strain?” Tim asks. “If there was only one case before, we can’t  _ know _ that, right? Or that the vaccine won’t work?”

“The vaccine only works for the main Zaire strain in the first place,” Bruce says. “You’re right, though, it’s possible that Regeneron’s treatment might work on this new strain, we’ll have to see. They need to approve it for compassionate use in the U.S. first, and the doses have to be shipped from wherever they are. I’ve already got Wayne Enterprises helping smooth the process anywhere we can.”

“That’s good,” Tim says. “That’s good. Maybe it’ll--maybe we--maybe--” he looks down at his arm, where the tiny waterproof bandage sits, now, where one little turning point may have changed his life forever, where his body has a weak spot, where his suit was soaked through before they ever got to the cave—he  _ knows, _ he was damp and sticky with more than sweat when they reached the Batmobile—hell, before they even made it out of that first street—

Tim is too present, suddenly, with Nova in his lap and his arm feeling just like normal and Bruce already halfway out of his chair with Tim’s name on his lips, and with Ebola maybe slipping into his cells, replicating, replicating, silently building an army throughout all his veins. A ticking bomb, a countdown timer fueled by the resources of his own body turning against him, and Tim chokes out one short, strangled sob. 

Bruce lands on the mattress at his hip, leaning over to wrap around Tim as much as he can while Tim tries his hardest not to let himself cry, shuddering in Bruce’s arms every few seconds, breath getting choppier as his mind races through scenarios, biology lessons, postmortem reports, statistical models that a year ago had been just extra-credit projects and now are playing out as life or death. When he finally does start to cry, his throat is so tight that it comes out as hardly more than high, jagged tea kettle noises. 

“I know,” Bruce whispers, close to Tim’s ear. One of his hands keeps brushing gently through Tim’s long hair, rubbing small circles at the nape of his neck. “I know. I know, sweetheart, I’m so sorry that you were there. I’m so sorry this is happening. It’s okay to be scared right now. You’re not alone. We’re not going to stop trying to fix this, I promise, Tim. Let it out. No one’s going to bother us for a bit.” 

When Tim’s gotten over the initial panic, when his breathing is more or less back under control, he pushes away from Bruce and stands on the rug, elbows tucked in close. 

“Should I stay away from everybody?” he asks. “I know I’m not symptomatic, but if it’s a new strain, maybe—maybe I shouldn’t be near anyone, maybe none of us should be touching each other.”

“We’re going to treat this as if it’s about like the main strain, for now,” Bruce says, calm and firm as he stands and steps close enough to drop a hand on Tim’s shoulder and start steering him to the door. “No excessive contact, constant hand washing, disinfecting what we can, but no need to totally quarantine anyone yet. It’s going to be all right, Tim, Alfred and Dick and I have trained for things like this. We’ve got things covered. Keep trusting, all right?” 

“Yeah,” Tim sighs, as they start down the hall in the direction of what Tim can faintly recognize as the smell of crepe batter. “I do trust you all. Just—promise me that you won’t wait too long if I’m getting sick,” he begs. They stop in the middle of the hallway, Tim’s hand wrapped around Bruce’s upper arm tightly. Bruce turns to face Tim properly, hands coming up to grip his arms back.

“I promise,” Bruce says, low and serious. 

“You can’t not throw me straight into quarantine because you hope it’ll not be Ebola or something,” Tim says quickly, “or like, not tell the others right away—Jason will kill you, and then kill me if—once I’m out again, and it’s not worth it. But my parents—and the state, how do we…”

“If it comes down to it, we can give you better care here than they would at an overwhelmed hospital. Leslie has promised to take on the role of official doctor for us if someone gets sick, so that we can isolate in an official capacity. It’s skirting the system, but...I trust our chances here more than getting taken back into Gotham. Even the power grid and water system there may not be consistent if this gets bad. We’d keep your parents updated no matter what.”

“Yeah,” says Tim. “Makes sense. But what if the state comes and inspects? After the fact, what if they come and need to see how we quarantined? You can’t afford to be charged with like, negligence or child endangerment.” 

Bruce smiles for real now. “You think after all these years, Alfred and I didn’t plan for that kind of contingency? With Dick as a young Robin, and multiple Gotham villains having a penchant for toxins?” He shakes his head. “We have an actual quarantine setup in the manor, too, not just the cave. It’s tucked behind the secondary library in the East wing.”

Tim’s brows pinch together, and his grip on Bruce loosens. “What? But how did none of us notice that the outside and inside—“

“We rarely go over there,” Bruce points out.” And it’s within the interior of the structure, not touching any windows or outer walls. So from the outside, it does appear that there are rooms there, on the sides, because there  _ are.” _

“Oh,” says Tim. “That’s...really smart. Weird, but not  _ so _ weird that it can’t be chalked up to being a paranoid-private-eccentric-billionaire thing. Nice.” 

“Dick got told about it when he was older, and less likely to freak out about possible plagues,” Bruce adds, as they resume walking. “And the state technically knows. Turns out, we’re not even the only wealthy family in the state to have a setup like this. So it’s not unheard of. My lawyers assure me that as long as I can prove that we have proper equipment and medical staff providing care during any use of it, there should be no issue with keeping care in-house rather than in a hospital, so long as the proper state agencies are informed as necessary.”

“Huh. Okay. So  _ this _ is why you let Clark and Lois drop their hints in articles that you have prepper tendencies.”

“Maybe, Bruce concedes, but Tim can see the smile he’s trying very hard to hide. “Any more pressing concerns, before we get breakfast and probably get swarmed by your older brothers for at least three minutes straight?” 

“Nope,” Tim says. “I mean, I’m assuming you’re gonna sit us all down after crepes for another briefing, so if I have any I’ll just ask then?”

“You assume correctly,” Bruce says. He lets go of Tim to ruffle his hair until it’s puffed up a solid two inches from Tim’s head. “Come on, Tim. Let’s go get some breakfast before Cass and Steph steal all of the first batch and leave us with nothing but diced cantaloupe and shattered dreams, huh?” 

“Oof, yeah, let’s go,” Tim says, taking off in a half-run. “I hate cantaloupe. Everyone hates cantaloupe. It should be illegal.”

Bruce joys alongside him. “I like cantaloupe,” he says, sounding a little offended.

“That’s because you’re a weirdo who fights crime in your million-dollar fursona outfit and drinks green smoothies with spinach in them like a heathen.”

“I do  _ not _ —it’s not a—that’s—!”

“Did I hear  _ fursona?” _ Jason demands, popping his leaning out from the dining room doorway suddenly as they approach. “Are we roasting Bruce? Is it Bruce-teasing day again? Because I have been  _ planning _ since the last day and I have some real—“

“It is  _ not,”  _ says Bruce. 

“Are you sure?” Jason grins at Tim. “It has been a while, and we’re all gathered here serendipitously. It would be a shame to let the opportunity go to—“

“BREAKFAST,” Dick hollers from the kitchen, right then, and the rest of Jason’s sentence trails into a shout of delight.”

“COME ON, baby bird,” Jason exclaims as he ducks out of the room and yanks a startled Tim behind him at high speed. “The world might be ending, but it ain’t ending yet, and I’m gonna get at least six crepes if I have to fight Cass to the death to do it.” 

“No fighting in my kitchen!” Alfred calls firmly as they slid through the doorway. “Wash your hands, please. Then you may serve yourselves.  _ Three _ crepes apiece, no more, and the next batch will be ready in ten minutes.” 

“Yes, Alfred,” Jason grumbles, walking over to the sink at normal speed, Tim on his heels. The others are already at the table, Dick cheerfully slathering Nutella on one of his crepes at light speed. 

“Good morning,” Bruce calls, as he enters the room. 

The usual chorus of “Morning, B”s, “Good morning, Master Bruce”, “Hi Dad!”, and “Hey, pops,” tumbles around the room for a few chaotic seconds, then settles into clinking dishes, easy morning conversation, and quick, quiet exchanges of information on what everyone has heard in scattered updates from the city. 

Tim serves himself quietly and settles into a chair between Jason and Dick, letting the various conversations wash over him and absorbing pieces here and there that sound relevant. He mostly eats in silence, trying to keep his concerns about the infection rate and potential outcomes to himself, and sinks more and more into his own thoughts.

_ We have to get an estimate on how many people were on the streets in close enough proximity to any of the biobombs, and how many people potentially walked through several zones of them while trying to get somewhere safer. Those people are going to have the highest viral load, and probably show symptoms more quickly...people need to know to stop breastfeeding the second they get sick, and the street kids--I have to get in contact with Brent. All the kids need to have the situation explained and we need to set up some kind of shelter-- _

Tim’s startled back into full awareness as Jason clunks a fruit bowl down in front of him onto his empty plate. 

“Eat,” Jason demands. “Alfred and I have come up with a meal plan. Everyone’s got to eat the minimum daily amount of fruits and veggies a day, so get a move on.”

“If you try to make me eat broccoli or cauliflower,” Tim warns, as he picks up his fork and carefully stabs into a grape, “I will puke on you.”

“You’ll eat what we give you,” Jason says, pointing a finger at him. “But also, duh? Who do you think I am? We aren’t going to try to feed you meat or anything you hate. You just can’t go around trying to fight off the plague while eating nothing but Kraft cheese and mustard sandwiches every day.” 

“That was a  _ year  _ ago!” Tim protests. “And I cooked real meals sometimes! That’s not fair.” 

“Mustard and cheese?” Steph chimes in. “That’s it?”

“Not even good cheese,” Dick says, solemnly. “American cheese squares.” 

“It was easy!” Tim exclaims. “And it didn’t involve meat. I was just taking deli meat off of cheese sandwiches anyway, so why not?”

“Disgusting,” Steph says, sounding impressed as she takes another enormous bite of jelly-covered whole grain toast. 

“Tim,” Babs says, A hefty side helping of you-guys-are-just-so-weird-sometimes in her voice. “At least the deli sandwiches have, like,  _ actual cheese _ on them. You couldn’t have gotten anything better? Or tried, I don’t know, pickles, or  _ something _ , at least? Maybe slice up a tomato?”

“I was a little busy! Listen,  _ you _ try feeding yourself most days from like, elementary school onward, while you’re going to school and running back and forth to Gotham most nights, and see how sick of trying to actually make meals  _ you _ get,” Tim protests, stabbing at a grape and sending it flying right onto Bruce’s morning paper. “Uh, oops.”

Bruce sends the grape soaring over at Cass with a flick of one careful finger, and smiles when she laughs and flicks it right back. He tosses it in a perfect arc to the trash can, ignoring Alfred’s exasperated look in his direction. 

“I’m going to have to side with Tim on this one,” Bruce says, to Jason and Dick’s dismay. “Food preparation is a pain.”

“Bruce, when have you ever cooked a meal in your life,” Jason says flatly. “Aside from that time you set the oven on fire. That doesn’t count.” 

“I wandered around the globe as a broke ninja in training for years,” Bruce points out, taking a prim sip of his coffee and ignoring Tim’s envious glare. They forbid Tim from any coffee or energy drinks until the crisis is over, and Bruce has sworn to himself he’s not going to let Tim sway him. At least not until they pass the five day mark. He’s got a bet going with Dick, and he can’t keep losing them like he has lately. One of these days his eldest will stop taking him seriously at all. 

“But did you cook for yourself?” Jason prods. “Or did you mooch off of locals, and like, whatever cooks your creepy League time involved, and stuff like that?”

“I got very good at grilling lizards for a while,” Bruce says with a straight face, enjoying the way he sees Alfred twitch slightly out of the corner of his eye. 

“Lizards,” says Dick.

“Lizards,” Bruce confirms. 

“Why...you know what, I don’t want to know.”

Bruce takes another sip of his coffee. 

“Come on,” Tim pleads, finally cracking. “Please. Just a little mug? Not even enough to give me any buzz. I just want to  _ taste _ it. I can smell the coffee, you horrible people. It’s not fair.”

“When you’re eighteen, you can have all the coffee you want when we’re having the next global-scale crisis,” Jason says smugly. “Till then, looks like you gotta listen to us  _ grown-ups, _ baby bird.” 

“I hate you so much right now,” Tim says with a fake scowl. 

Jason clutches his hands to his heart, and theatrically spends four entire seconds falling out of his chair to the floor, throwing one hand up dramatically to rest on his forehead. 

“Egads!” he exclaims. “You wound me, sir, stab me right in the heart. How can you be so cruel, when all I have ever been is your faithful companion and friend?”

“Last week you put toothpaste in Oreos and stuck them in my locker for after patrol when you knew I wouldn’t be able to resist eating anything in sight,” Tim says, unmoved. 

“Okay, well, besides that.”

“That other time, you got mad that I beat you three times in a row on Rainbow Road, so you set my alarm to wake me up at  _ five in the morning _ blaring Boom Boom Pow at full volume.”

“That was just--”

“AND there was the time when we were playing rooftop Ghosts in the Graveyard on that slow night on patrol, remember, and I tackled you into that pool  _ right  _ after you re-bedazzled your jacket, and  _ you  _ decided that the appropriate retribution would be to--”

“OKAY,” Jason says quickly, clapping his hands together with a mildly-panicked grin. “Point made! Got it! Can I interest you in another crepe, maybe, and we never speak of that incident again?”

Tim stares him down for a few seconds, then breaks into a too-wide grin of his own, while Dick shakes beside the two of them trying desperately not to laugh. “Yes, actually,” Tim says pleasantly. “Neatly rolled, with cream cheese, strawberries, plenty of gummy bears from the jar in the pantry, and exactly seven chocolate chips spaced out evenly along the length of the crepe, thank you.”

Stephanie snorts orange juice out through her nose and can’t stop laughing while tears stream from her eyes for a few moments. 

“Sorry,” she wheezes. “Oh, god, that burns a lot more than I expected--sorry, didn’t mean to, it was just--” she laughs again. 

Jason looks pained.  _ “Gummy bears?” _ he asks, wearily, already resigned. 

“Gummy bears,” Tim repeats. “Generously.” 

“Okay. Fine. One strawberry, cream cheese, gummy bear crepe, coming right up,” Jason says, walking to the counter like a man headed for the gallows. 

“Don’t forget the chocolate chips,” Bruce adds. 

Dick grins. “Exactly seven!”

Jason very, very carefully sticks his middle finger out at Dick where he thinks he’s safe from prying eyes, but unfortunately…

_ “Master _ Jason!” 

Busted. 

“In this house,” Alfred says sternly, “we do not flip the bird to siblings, guardians, or anyone else. You will apologize and deposit the correct amount into the swear jar before leaving this kitchen after breakfast.”

“Alfie,” Jason tries, but it falls on deaf ears. 

Tim leans against Dick as his oldest brother wraps an arm around him and tugs him close, and they both laugh together while Jason tries to get Bruce on his side, then falls back on Stephanie. Tim grins while Alfred starts in on a lecture for the both of them on appropriate and inappropriate places and times for crude language, and the finer points of why cussing is done at all, and the even finer points of why Alfred does not allow it in his domain save under very, very extenuating circumstances, which do  _ not  _ include sibling bickering no matter how serious it may be. 

Tim gets his crepe in the end, and a solid noogie from Jason that he may or may not lean into for an extra second or four. They go out to run the dogs that morning together, just the two of them, after breakfast and Bruce’s family meeting, and things are honestly...all right. 

* * *

It’s not too bad being stuck in the manor, for the most part. Babs does go home with the help of Batman, the second day of Gotham’s lockdown, but even with her not around for the most part, there are still plenty of people in the manor to stave off boredom. 

Bruce kicks Tim out of the Batcave six times in the first three days whenever he finds Tim in the dim lighting, tapping away at the keyboard trying to dig up more information, new leads, vague references that might help. 

“I’m trying to help, here!” Tim growls at Bruce as he’s shoved in the direction of the stairs. 

“You’re helping plenty by taking care of your health and assisting me when I ask you to,” Bruce says. “I haven’t restricted your laptops. You can do your research upstairs in the sunshine, where you won’t turn into a vampire and forget to eat or drink for nine hours straight until Jason or I come dig you out of the Batchair or a cupboard.” 

“I’m not  _ that  _ bad.”

Bruce snorts. “Bud, you absolutely are.”

“But my laptop doesn’t have all the functions of the Batcomputer,” Tim protests. “I need the case compiling program!”

“When you really need to use it, you can come tell me,” Bruce tells him. “Until then,  _ march.” _

Tim marches. 

Once Bruce gets everyone else on board with the whole Keep Each Other Eating, Drinking, Sleeping, and In Sunny Areas With Circulating Air As Much As Possible initiative, Tim switches gears and sets up a genuine, bona fide conspiracy theory cork board in the main lounge. Except it’s not a conspiracy theory board, since this is a real scenario, but hey. A goat is a goat, no matter its reason for existing. 

“Are you okay,” Steph says, the first time she walks into the room the next morning and gets an eyeful of Tim, in full bedhead, attaching the hundredth red string to the board between a blurry photograph of what looks like a middle-eastern ninja of sorts and a post-it note with “FUNDING?? ASK ORACLE TO TRACE BACK” on it in pink sharpie. “Should I like. Get Bruce. Are you having a breakdown or is your family just this weird.”

“You kept a manilla envelope of hundreds of pieces of evidence on criminals all over gotham and made a plan to make your own costume and run around the city spraying ecologically-stable moss graffiti on unused walls,” Tim says, without even turning around. He picks up another push pin and jabs it through the top of a typed list of known manufacturers of biological warheads from the past fifty years. “Are you really sure you should be judging right now?”

“He’s fine,” Dick calls, from where he’s doing handstand push-ups near an 18th-century Rococo-style painting. “This happens. Usually more on the Bat-’puter, but--” Dick grunts as he wobbles for a moment, then stabilizes again and keeps going. “--Timmy makes do.”

“Thanks for making me sound like a homesteader,” Tim says. 

“Pleasure,” Dick says, with an upside-down grin. 

Tim throws a roll of vivid yellow duct tape at him, but Dick catches it with his foot and juggles for a few seconds before just tossing it on over to Cass where she’s perched on a window seat. 

Why, she signs, looking at him with exasperation. 

“Just because.” 

“Oh my god,” Jason moans, shuffling into the room with a duvet wrapped around him like a cape and slippers nearly falling off his feet. “It is too early for this, shut up, everyone shut up, why do you have to be so loud underneath my room.”

“You could always move,” Dick points out. 

“Fuck you.”

“Language,” Steph sing-songs. 

“And you. You’re not Alfred.”

“You called?” says Alfred, dryly, as he steps into the room. 

Jason nearly trips over his own feet. 

“Morning Alfred, sorry Alfred, I was absolutely not saying anything rude, it’s all Dick’s fault.”

“Mm,” Alfred says, narrowing his eyes. “I see. One dollar and thirty-three cents in the swear jar, Master Jason. I may be old, but my hearing, I assure you, is still  _ quite  _ sharp.”

Tim slams his hands over his mouth to hold in his laughter. He locks eyes with Steph, whose whole face has gone red-purple in her own struggle to stay silent, and has to look away immediately. 

“A dollar thirty-three?” Jason says, outraged, even while he slumps over in a heap on the sofa. “F--uh, the f-word is only a dollar!”

“The thirty-three cents are for attempting to lie to me,” Alfred says cheerfuly, as he drapes one of the room’s many afghans over Jason’s feet and lower legs after the young man kicks off his slippers. “I thought you had grown out of the habit, but if you need a reminder, perhaps that will serve.”

“Sorry, Alfred,” Jason mumbles.

“You’re forgiven,” Alfred says, brushing one hand over Jason’s curls. Then he turns to face the other side of the room, hands landing on his hips. “Master Dick,” he says, in that voice. “I understand you have as much energy as a litter of month-old puppies, but would you please release it somewhere a bit further away from valuable artwork?”

Dick flips onto his feet, looking chagrined. He rubs one hand across the back of his neck and walks over to a more open part of the room, closer to Cass. “Sorry, Alfie,” he says. “But I haven’t broken anything in three years, that’s pretty good, right?”

“Quite,” says Alfred, opening another set of drapes, and shooting Cass a soft smile before walking to the next window over. “But we would do well to not tempt fate into breaking that streak.”

“How do _I_ get an Alfred,” Steph whispers, after she sidles over to stand beside Tim. 

“You’ve already got one,” Tim says. “Once you’re here for a few days, you get Alfred worrying about you for life for absolutely free.” 

“I can hear _ you, _ too, Master Tim,” Alfred says from across the room, and Steph can’t hold the laughter in this time. 

“I didn’t say it was _ bad, _ you’re like, the actual  _ best  _ and we all appreciate what you do. I love you Alfie,” Tim shoots back instantly, grinning even while he flushes, and then he realizes the whole room has gone dead silent. 

Alfred has turned to face Tim, quite still, and his eyes look...oddly shiny. Dick and Cass are both staring at Tim, and there’s a small but  _ very  _ satisfied smile on Dick’s face. Even Jason has popped his head out from under the duvet to stare. 

“Uh,” Tim says quietly. “What…”

“Master Tim,” Alfred says, thickly. His hands clutch the handle of the duster he’s holding tightly by his chest. “I love you very much, as well.” 

Tim blinks. Was that...really the first time he…

“BRUCE,” Jason hollers, at the top of his lungs. Dick sprints for the doorway and leans out, to project his voice further down the hallway. 

“BRUUUUUUCE,” Dick shouts. Then he walks over to the sofa and drops down an inch away from Jason’s ankles and leans back. 

Bruce comes practically skidding into the room a few seconds later, while Tim is still blinking at Alfred and no one has quite gone back to what they were previously doing. 

“What,” he demands, voice tight. “Is something wrong? Are you all okay?” 

“We’re fine,” Dick says calmly, smiling at Bruce. “Tim just told Alfred he loves him.”

Tim feels his skin go even more red, from the front of his cheeks to the tips of his ears. Bruce turns, looking over at him with an odd expression. Maybe a mix of...surprise? And a little pride? But sadness too? Tim doesn’t know. He’s not great at labeling emotions, still. It’s hard.

“Really,” says Bruce, voice much looser now. 

“It was great,” Jason says. “He didn’t even realize for a second.”

“I--” Tim starts, still standing in the same spot. He frowns, looking over at Alfred, who’s smiling at him. “But...haven’t I...I never told you before?”

Alfred shakes his head slightly. “Not like that,” he says. 

“We’ve been wondering, for a while,” Bruce says, as he walks over to Tim, now. “It was a matter of time, but we weren’t sure when you’d do it. You have a much easier time saying that you love us as a group than actually telling us individually.” 

“What?” Tim asks, feeling more stressed than he thinks he should. “Did I--have I told the rest of--” he swallows, and suddenly his eyes are burning, heat welling up behind them, and here come tears, and  _ goddamnit _ . Why does this always seem to happen at the worst times? “No, I have to have told you, of course I love you, how have I not said it before, I--wait. No, no no no, who else haven’t I told?” He looks frantically over at Bruce, a few steps away, and Dick, and Jason, and Cass, back to Alfred, back to Bruce. “I’m sorry!” he says thickly, tears spilling over. “I didn’t realize I don’t say it, I love you, I promise I love all of you, I mean--I love you, Alfred, I do, and, and--Bruce, I love you, and--” he has to pause to sniff hard a few times. He can see Steph edging away a little in the corner of his vision. 

And then Bruce is there, wrapping him in a hug, shushing him like he’s a little kid while Tim tries to breath through his rapidly-running nose and Bruce’s thick sweater, and feels a wet patch spreading under his face. 

“Tim,” Bruce says, calm and steady. “Hey. Don’t worry about it too much. We all know you love us, buddy. You don’t need to say it with words when you say it a hundred other ways. Alfred has always known.”

“But--”

Alfred is next to them, like magic, the man is always like magic, and this apparently is one of the rare end-of-the world moments in their family, because Alfred breaks the rules he normally follows like the Laws of Moses and lays one of his hands on Tim’s head. Tim turns his neck till he can see Alfred while Bruce is still holding him in a hug. 

“Don’t cry,” Alfred says, but it’s not any kind of rebuke or command. “There is nothing for you to be ashamed or afraid of in this house. I love you quite thoroughly, and words are not necessary for me to do so. Never doubt that we know you love us. It is evident in everything you do.”

“But I never said it?” Tim asks again.

“It doesn’t matter,” Alfred says, leaving absolutely no room for argument. “I am, of course, quite touched that you did say so, today. But you never need to say it for me to hear it in your actions, and in the things you do say. Just know that I love you as well, always, and nothing will ever change that.”

Tim gets emotional again for a few more minutes, and makes Bruce have to go change his sweater in the end. And Dick is a bad sympathy crier when it comes to family, so of course he ended up crying too, and then Cass wrapped them both up in a hug once they were finished and essentially frog-marched them after Alfred down to the kitchen, and by the end of the whole saga, everyone in the household got hot cocoa how they liked it most, and Tim had given Alfred probably the longest hug between the two of them since the day Jason first brought Tim home from school.

* * *

So life goes on. They relax, and they watch the Lord of the Rings three times, and swap TV shows, and work on projects. They eat healthily, and sleep when Alfred and Bruce say, and gang up on Bruce to bully him into bed when he’s staying up too late, as well. Jason and Dick are in communication with Superman and Wonder Woman, keeping tabs on how long Bruce is out in Gotham as either Bruce Wayne, helping with relief efforts in protective gear, or as Batman, working with the Justice League and among the people who are trying to fix the city and hunt down those responsible.

They record their temperatures every four hours each day. It starts to become routine. Steph even gets together a decorating party, and convinces even Bruce to add stickers to his personal temperature log sheet. And she’s right. It does make the whole thing a little less grim.

“Whistling in the dark,” Alfred says approvingly, as they clean up from the arts and crafts tornado that swept through Bruce’s study, leaving it looking more like an elementary school summer camp than a business office. 

“Gotta stay cheerful somehow,” Steph agrees.

And so they keep on. 

Tim adds to his cork board, adds files to his computer, spends hours brainstorming with Bruce while the others aren’t around. They talk about possible suspects, try to leverage every asset to trace funds and ghost accounts, coordinate friends and teammates to help them follow up on various leads. They spend a lot of time working on Tim’s side project, his simulation, trying to take data from previous Ebola epidemics and correct for various factors like location, geography, utility availability, drug treatments, proximity to major urban centers and high traffic levels, start building something that might, at least a little, begin to show what has happened in Gotham. What might happen in the coming weeks. 

It’s hard. He’s spending most of his free time on it by day seven. Gotham is--the attack wasn’t just one person getting infected, and becoming patient zero. The scientists haven’t traced the full lineage of this strain yet, and it was dropped on a lot of people all at once. There is no patient zero to trace from. There are hundreds. Maybe thousands. People started falling sick as early as the fourth day after the attack, and time is already starting to run out for them. Tim has to get this done. He has to figure out the variables, scrawled around three whiteboards, use the right formulas, he has to put this together so they can tell how many people are going to get it, so they can know where to target first with the vaccines, with more intense quarantine, with the antibody drugs, he has to make this model work, or--

“Tim.”

Bruce catches his hand from behind, gently pries the Expo marker out of it and sets it on the little ledge at the bottom of Tim’s fourth whiteboard. “Stop. You need to take a break.”

“I need to predict the spread,” Tim says. He sounds a little unhinged even to his own ears, honestly. But he has to. He does. “I’ve got to get this done, Bruce, people are already sick. It’s got an incubation period of three weeks, but people are already sick, and they don’t  _ have  _ that long. I have to figure out where it’s spreading.”

Bruce sighs, and bends down so he can look Tim in the eyes, but Tim looks away. He can’t. He can’t right now, it’s too uncomfortable, what he needs is to  _ work _ . 

“Sweetheart,” Bruce says. “You are not going to be able to save everyone. We’re not going to save everyone even if we found a total cure right this second. It doesn’t work like that.”

“I can try!” Tim snaps. “I have to try. We have to do it. There’s no one else, the government is completely tied up trying to keep the whole nation from panicking, not to mention the pressure internationally, and there are lots of experts but--”

“But you are _ fifteen years old,” _ Bruce says, starting to slowly approach the starting range of his Batman voice, “not a trained expert in epidemiology and statistical modeling, not a metahuman, and potentially infected yourself. You can’t run yourself ragged, and you can’t work miracles in less than half the time it takes most experts to do things, and you can’t save everyone no matter how hard you try. You know that, Tim. And I know it’s hard, and painful, but it’s better to take care of yourself, and save who you can, when you can, than to not be able to save anyone at all because you burned yourself out.”

“But all the people,” Tim says miserably. “They’re just...they’re just sitting in quarantine, getting worse, and so far the antibody drugs aren’t doing much of anything at all except slowing it in a few people, maybe, and there’s no telling how and where it’s already spreading. And I have to--my kids, Bruce, I haven’t even been able to see them, and Kristin said like a third of the little ones are just missing altogether, since that night, and you know that the poorest people and most minimum-wage staff get hit hard, and they’re my responsibility, B, I have to get this done soon!”

“You will,” Bruce says, holding Tim’s face gently. “Tim. I absolutely believe that you will. You’re so smart, and the fact that you even know how to do anything like this at all is amazing. But you can’t solve the whole thing tonight. I have to go out, for a few hours, and you need to go to bed. I promise you, I’ll do whatever I can to find and help the street kids, but sweetheart, this is one of the times where I need to step in and take care of you. All right? I promise you’ll get this done. Barry and I will keep helping where we can, and I’ll keep contacting experts who can give some insight on how to do the math. But not tonight. Please let me take you up to bed, sweetheart.”

Tim looks at his whiteboards, at the multi-colored writing, the formula that’s been rubbed out and written over and edited at least twenty times, at the new whiteboard that’s got only a few inches scribbled on so far, screaming for him to stay, to keep going a little longer--he can figure it out, make something that’s passable, good enough even if it’s not perfect, he just has to keep going. He sighs, and turns his back on them, reaching up silently to take Bruce’s hand, still so much bigger than his. 

“Okay,” he says quietly. 

“Thank you,” Bruce says. They start up the Batcave stairs, not slowly, but not too fast, and halfway up, Tim opens his mouth suddenly. 

“My dad,” he says. “The modeling, it was--I started learning it for school. And I got really, really into it, so I kept going a lot on my own, and that’s how I practiced and know so much about the different epidemic models, but. In the beginning. It was just this extra credit project, and I got stuck on something, with one of the formulas, and it was one of the good days. My dad spent the whole morning helping me figure out where I went wrong and make the whole thing better.”

“He’s very smart,” Bruce says, giving Tim’s hand a short squeeze. They push open the door to Bruce’s study together. “Your father was a very respected numbers man, before he got more into archaeology.”

“Yeah,” says Tim. “He taught me a lot, in bits and pieces. I think he was trying to get me to understand square roots when I was like...seven or eight? But I had no clue what he was talking about then.” He laughs a little. “When he’s in a good mood, he’s one of the coolest people ever to talk to. That was the most interesting stuff I learned the whole school year.”

“I’m glad you had that time with him. I hope...I know that he’s hurt you, and I don’t know if he’ll ever be capable of taking you back in, or being a father the way he should. But I hope that you can get some more moments that are like that, again. You deserve that. I know how much you love him still.”

“Yeah,” Tim sighs. “I hope we can have that too.” He snorts, as they turn off the main staircase towards where the bedrooms are. “And hey, maybe if I get stuck on this too much, he’ll be able to figure this model out too.”

“Maybe,” Bruce agrees. “Honestly, it’s not a bad idea. Maybe tomorrow you can do a video call and see if he has any insight.”

“Maybe,” Tim says. “I don’t know if I can...talking is harder, now, for us. I might just email him...we’ll see. I’ll figure it out if I need to. But I want to take another crack at it again myself, first.” They pause at Tim’s door, Tim drooping more by the second, Bruce already in his under layer, tired but alert and mentally bracing himself for the chaos that the city has been falling into during the perfect storm of martial law and quarantine and a lot of panicked people being caged in one space. 

“Please be safe, B,” Tim begs. “Don’t take any stupid risks. No one can afford to have you out of commission right now, and if you get sick, I think we all might lose it for real.”

“I will be,” Bruce promises. “I don’t want to get sick, believe me. I’m actually already talking with the JL and Gordon about cutting my hours a little more, and acting as more of a coordinator while I focus on tracing down the source of the virus. That’s looking more and more like our only hope of stopping this from doing the damage it’s intended to.”

“Find the source, find a treatment?” Tim asks. 

“Exactly.”

“Just...come home okay,” Tim says, hugging Bruce for a few seconds. He opens his door and steps halfway through, turns back to look Bruce in the eye fully. “I love you,” he says, clearly and deliberately. “Good night, B. Go help people. They need you.”

Bruce salutes, smiling at Tim. “Aye aye, captain,” he says. “Go to bed. I’ll see you in the morning. And I love you too, Tim. Sleep well.”

The door closes as Bruce walks down the hallway, headed to his study to check his temperature one last time before he goes out. He hasn’t told the kids everything about what it’s like, over in Gotham, and of course they have more sources than just him, but no one is especially eager to talk about details at the moment. It’s not pretty. It’s becoming like the wild west, everyone suspicious of everyone else, all the racism and bad blood and class disdain coming out in full force fueled by fear. People have been dying of more than just the virus, which hasn’t even killed anyone yet, except one old woman--and that was from a heart attack just hours after she was told she tested positive. 

But Bruce has seen the patients in quarantine, through the plastic and the windows of hospital isolation wards. Isolation wards that are already full. Newcomers are spilling over into plastic isolation tents surrounded by military barriers now, and more keep coming. Tim’s numbers are a day and a half behind. 

Bruce has seen the patients, been watching the progression with grim stoicism while in the Batsuit, next to his fellow heroes--and Poison Ivy, who told him that she couldn’t stand to watch the kids suffering without anyone to at least read to them, hold their hands, bring them water, except when a suited health worker happened to be gowned up and walking through one of the wards. Ivy has been turning into one of the most useful, silver-lining things to come out of this whole mess. Inside the Batsuit, behind the cowl, the mask, the persona, Bruce’s heart just keeps breaking more every day and night that he goes out. 

There’s a little kid, almost five, who’s close to losing his fight. Bruce has waved to him through a window every night this week. He probably won’t live to see tomorrow evening, and Bruce doesn’t need one of the doctors to tell him what he can already see. 

But tonight, Bruce is going to be at the window again anyway, and maybe the boy will be away, and maybe he won’t, but Bruce will be there. Batman, yes, he’ll be in the costume. His cowl will peer through the glass. He’ll be raising a gauntleted, gloved hand when he waves. But Bruce is the one waving to the little boy. It will be Bruce who weeps with Alfred, when the news comes through Superman, eventually, that he doesn’t need to come to that particular window again, until someone else is placed in there. 

This is the kind of detail Bruce doesn’t tell the kids. They could handle it, he knows that, he trains them, loves them, knows how their minds and hearts work better than they do themselves sometimes. But that’s why he wants to spare them as long as he can. They’re going to face it soon enough, anyway. He’s trying to give them a little bit of time before they go back out into the horror as well, or before it comes knocking on their own door. He’s still holding out hope that maybe they’ll be spared the Sword of Damocles that’s hanging over them. Possibly. Just this once.

Bruce’s temperature is normal, just as it has been every day. He puts the thermometer back in it’s case, labeled Bruce in Alfred’s neat printing. He goes to the cave, puts on the rest of his suit. He drives to the city. He handles looters, talks strategy with the JL, with Gordon, with a general, with international contacts. He goes to the wards. Goes to the first hospital. He stands in front of the window, and he waves, and the little boy doesn’t open his eyes, even when the nurse now parked in the room in a full protective suit tries to wake him gently. Bruce waves again anyway, one more time, and watches the little chest rise and fall hard and fast, a little uneven, then steady again, and repeat.

Then he goes home and decontaminates. Lets Alfred get up and hold him like he’s eight again, twelve, sixteen and his heart breaking, just for a few minutes, and then he gets up, and splashes water on his eyes. He checks on each of the kids, watches them breathe without trouble, lets himself relax and remember that yes, they’re all right, they’re safe, and there is nothing to fight here.

He closes the last door soundlessly, and crawls into his own bed, mind settled for the next few hours and finally allowing him to sleep. 

* * *

Tim wakes up before true dawn the next morning, on the ninth day, with a throbbing, squeezing headache. His muscles are sore, like he has the flu. Tim feels like his heart skips a beat, or maybe three, as he  _ realizes, _ suddenly blinking fully away, and he rolls his aching body over to the nightstand, snatching up the thermometer there. 

He waits, each second stretching out for what feels like seventy heartbeats and a hundred years, and the thermometer finally beeps, and he yanks it out of his mouth, propped up on one shaky arm, staring at the numbers as if wishing will make them change. 

He lies down and breathes, for a few minutes, pushing every emotion away that tries to come. Looks at Nova, who woke for a moment when he moved, but is now back to sleeping peacefully across the foot of his bed. Tim goes through steps in his mind. Thinks of each thing he needs to do, holds on to the order and purpose as the anchor to keep himself afloat, and then he unplugs his phone from the charging cable and hits the very first name in the favorites list, swallowing hard once against his slightly-sore throat as he listens to the ringtone.

“Tim? It’s early, sweetheart, are you alright?”

Tim can’t speak for a moment. He takes a breath, more uneven than he expected, and opens his mouth. 

“Bruce,” he whispers. “I have a fever.”

There’s silence on the other end of the line for a beat. 

“I’ll be right there,” Bruce says, dead serious. “I just hit the button to call Alfred. Any other symptoms.”

Tim closes his eyes. “Headache,” he says. “Sore. Feel weak, low energy. It’s…”

“It might be,” Bruce says. It’s been seconds since Tim woke him, and he’s completely alert. Tim can hear the sound of a door opening down the hallway. “But it might not be. We’ll see. I have to gown up before I come in, Tim, but I’ll go as fast as I can. Put on the mask in your drawer next to the bed.”

“Okay,” Tim says, reaching over to tug it out. “My fever is already 100.6, B.” 

Bruce sighs, very, very quietly. 

“Okay,” he murmurs. “We’re going to get you a fever reducer as soon as we can. And lots of water. Alfred and I are getting dressed, and we’ll be in in probably ten minutes. Do you want us to stay on the phone?”

“No,” Tim says. “It’s okay. I’ll be--” he cracks a wobbly grin and flops back, voice muffled slightly by the mask as he stares up at the carved wood ceiling. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

“Just a few minutes,” Bruce promises, grunting as Tim imagines he’s tugging some part of the suit on. “Then we’ll be with you. It’s going to be okay.”

“Okay, B,” Tim says. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Love you, Timmy,” Bruce says, quietly, and Tim can finally hear a little bit of the fear leaking through. He squeezes his eyes shut against the heat that’s trying to build, and firmly shoves that back down, too, locking it up as best he can. 

“Love you too,” Tim says, and then he hits the red button and tucks the phone under his pillow. 

_ It’s going to be...a long day. A really long day, _ he thinks.  _ I should call my parents. Later. After I’m...after I move, and we call Leslie, and everything. Once I get it set up so my mom won’t be scared. It’ll be okay, he tells himself. It’s not bad yet. I can still keep working. I can do this. And Bruce is coming. Batman is coming, he’s going to get me. It’s okay. Batman always manages to make it okay. _ Tim takes several long, deep breaths.

_ It has to be okay,  _ he tells himself firmly.  _ I’ll make it okay. I’ll do this. I’m gonna kick your  _ **_ass,_ ** _ Ebola, you can’t beat my family. They’re really territorial. And when Batman finds out who’s responsible for you, I sure’ll be glad to not be them that day. We’re not going down. We’re going to win.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SOrRY BUT I HOPE YOU LIKED THE CHAPTER! <3 Please hydrate, eat if you haven't recently, and take any meds you need! Get sleep when you can! You're precious and important and I hope tomorrow is good for you!


	21. i want a long life, all kidding aside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim gets settled in quarantine. Siblings ain't gonna let anyone go unincluded in this family, even if there is a deadly virus involved. And Jason continues to be a great, great big brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG THERE IS A WHOLE LOT GOING ON OMG between family issues and also family being super vulnerable to the novel coronavirus I am Stress, like Tim in audreycritter's brilliant fic Foreign Objects, and a little bit distracted, so it's hard to get in the writing headspace. I hope this is up to par! Stay safe out there, people. 
> 
> **Content Warning** : description of minor medical procedure (central line insertion), but no actual mention of needles or blood or any blades or anything.

Alfred and Bruce make short work of checking Tim over, well-practiced after years of handling medical situations both at home and abroad. Tim mostly just lets them do what they want, barely listening as they check his vitals through gloved hands and face shields and call Leslie with quiet voices. 

He’s almost falling back to sleep when Bruce shakes him gently, leaned over the bed and peering down at him with worry lines set firmly on his forehead. 

“Hey,” Bruce says quietly. “We’re going to get you settled in quarantine, sweetheart. It might be a flu, but since you were exposed, and you haven’t been out of the house for a while…” He shakes his head. “Leslie’s coming in a few hours, once she finishes a few things up at the clinic.”

“Okay,” Tim mumbles, a little annoyed at having to wake up again, but mostly just too tired and worried to think about anything except the chant of  _ Ebola, Ebola, Ebola _ that won’t stop running through his head. 

“We brought a suit for you,” Bruce tells him, as Alfred comes to stand next to them, holding the object in question. “You don’t have to wear it long, okay? Just till we get you in the room.”

Tim nods, and slides off the mattress onto his feet while Bruce keeps one hand on his arm just in case. They help him slip his legs in, pull it up his torso, his arms, start securing it up the back. Tim stares out through the clear faceplate, hears his breath echoing in the enclosed suit, and thinks,  _ this might be the last time I’m in my room.  _ Thinks, _ I might never see any of this again. _

Then Bruce is back in front of him, steady and calm. 

He picks up one of Tim’s hands, a Hazmat suit and protective garments and triple-layered gloves fall between them, but still--

“Tell us what you want to bring,” Bruce tells him. “Nothing one-of-a-kind, because it can’t come back out of quarantine unless it can be completely sterilized. But anything else you want. I’ll replace your phone and laptop after this is over, don’t worry about them.”

Tim spends the next couple of minutes quietly listing the things he wants while Bruce and Alfred slip them into an old duffel bag they brought in. One of his thick blankets. A couple fidget toys. His laptop and phone, obviously, but the old 3DS as well. A haphazard pile of notes and papers from his desk that he’s been scribbling on while working on the epidemic model. The batarang on his shelf that he had found as a kid—the one he used to distract the Scarecrow. Gordon had picked it up that night from the shipping container. He and Batman gave it back to Tim, engraved with that date, on the first night Tim went out as Robin. 

“Is anyone else up?” Tim asks, as a faint glow just begins its slow creep around the edges of his curtains. 

“Not so far,” Alfred answers. 

“Good,” says Tim, firmly. There’s no way he wants to face anyone else right now. At least not until he can get a grip on everything himself and put on the face he wants to show. If Jason or Dick or anyone else was around at the moment, giving him looks with all those meanings he struggles to parse through on a good day, and possibly crying and  _ definitely _ trying to say Comforting Words that will just make Tim want to slam hands over his ears until the world  _ stops _ for two seconds, just for a  _ moment,  _ so he can get his bearings—

“Are we ready, then?” asks Alfred, pulling Tim back into focus. 

Alfred and Bruce both wait patiently for Tim to respond. He looks around the room one more time, kneels down to pet Nova for a minute, and then leads her over to curl up in her dog bed near the window. She’ll have to be thoroughly cleaned and disinfected before they let her out around anyone else again, and they’ll need to decontaminate Tim’s room as well, so for now, she’ll stay here. Tim pushes himself back up to his feet with a lot more effort than it would have taken the day before, and doesn’t groan even when his joints and muscles complain at the movement. 

“Yeah,” Tim says, finally. “No point in wasting any more time.” 

The shuffle as quietly as possible out of Tim’s room, but just a few seconds after Alfred shuts the door quietly behind them, Dick’s door cracks open and Dick himself sticks his head out, hair a mess and eyes a still little bleary from sleep. 

It takes all of two seconds for the situation to register, and then Dick’s face crumples, and he opens his mouth to say something, steps one foot out the door. 

Bruce immediately shakes his head, and mimes holding a finger to his lips as best he can with the faceplate in the way.  _ Wait, _ he signs sharply at Dick, who looks torn. But then Dick nods, and steps all the way out to the hallway, but doesn’t come any closer. He looks at Tim. 

_ Love you, _ he signs.  _ Love you _ .

Tim swallows and flashes the sign back, as best he can through the suit. 

Dick understands. 

“I’ll be back,” Bruce says as quietly as he can. “If the others wake up, keep them distracted.”

Dick nods. 

“Come on, Tim,” Bruce whispers, one hand gently turning Tim back in the other direction and pressing him forward. “Quicker we get there, the quicker you can get out of that.”

Halfway to the quarantine room, Tim’s moving slowly enough that Bruce picks him up like a child and carries him the rest of the way there, one hand under Tim’s legs and one pressing firmly against his back, and Tim’s head dropped to rest on Bruce’s shoulder with all the protective layers in between. 

* * *

Tim’s been dozing in the bed for a while by the time Leslie gets there. Alfred and Bruce wasted little time getting him set up with a blood pressure cuff, pulse ox, and IV, but held off on anything further until she gives her input. 

Bruce knocks on the glass wall when they walk up to his door in the little hallway of the unit, and Tim blinks awake a little confused, feeling like he’s lagging. It takes him a few seconds to figure out where he is and what’s going on, long enough for Bruce to look concerned, and that’s just--Tim can’t worry Bruce any more than he already is. Bruce has to be focused, people need Batman. Tim fights to pull himself together, and shoves upright quickly till he’s perched on the edge of the bed. He ignores the fatigue begging him to just curl right back up like a cat. 

“Hi,” Tim says, as they let themselves in and a wave of air rushes into the room behind them before the door closes. 

“Hey, kiddo,” Dr. Thompkins says, coming over to check his IV and glance over the numbers on the monitor next to his bed. “Gotta say, I was hoping to not have to come back here till all this was over.”

“Sorry,” says Tim. “I know you’re really busy.”

“Tim,” Dr. Thompkins says, stopping what she’s doing to turn and look directly at him. “That’s not what I meant. I was hoping none of you would get sick--but since you are, I’m just glad I can help. I have to close the clinic in a day or two anyway, we’re almost out of supplies. Even Bruce’s money can’t buy things that don’t exist outside of government stockpiles reserved for the hospitals and scientists.”

“Oh.”

“We have some here at the manor,” Bruce says. “But even if we didn’t need them, there’s not nearly enough for you and your few nurses to safely treat any more than a couple of patients.”

“And the clinic isn’t sealed well enough to contain anyone with Ebola,” Dr. Thompkins sighs. “I already heard through the grapevine that I’m about to be shut down and reassigned within two days, if I don’t close down myself first. Most people are too afraid to travel even a couple streets over to a medical facility right now anyway. Because, really, we can’t promise someone symptomatic hasn’t been in the waiting room since the last time we cleaned it.”

“How bad is it?” Tim asks. 

_ “Nope,” _ Bruce says, immediately. “You’re officially  _ not  _ part of the information chain anymore. Minimum stress. You need to trust that everyone--government, Justice League, medical professionals--is doing the best they can, and focus on yourself.”

“Bruce!” Tim starts, angrily. “I can still help! Just because I’m--I can’t just  _ stop _ \--I can’t get the model to work right without the most accurate information.”

“We’ll keep giving you the numbers,” Bruce says, exactly as calm as Tim is frustrated. “But you don’t need graphic details that you can sit and ruminate on for hours. This is not negotiable, sweetheart.”

Leslie prods Tim to sit up straight as she presses a wireless stethoscope firmly against his chest. “Breathe in,” she orders. “Out. And again, nice and deep.” He obeys. “Honey,” she says, a little more gently than he’s heard her sound almost...ever. “You’re not going to be able to keep working for very long. It’s okay if you don’t get your model finished. We know how hard you’ve worked, and you’ve given everyone a better shot at predicting the spread than we had before. But you’re not a grown-up, Tim. This isn’t your job.”

“But I can do it,” Tim protests. Leslie moves on to his back. 

“Deep breath,” she says. “I believe you can, Tim. Again, nice and deep. But when you’re healthy. When you have time. If you do have Ebola, fighting it is now your one and only job. Do you understand?”

“I know,” Tim says. “But until I can’t really do anything anymore, I should--”

“You should listen to your father,” Dr. Thompkins says, sternly. “You should listen to your doctor, your family, everyone who loves and cares about you.” 

“Tim,” Bruce says, sitting carefully on the bed as Dr. Thompkins turns to go get some supplies from one of the drawers. “The thing you need to do most right now is rest. And the second most important thing is to relax. The more you stress over feeling like you’re not doing enough, the more your body is going to suppress your immune system, and you need every cell of it in peak form. I’m taking the whiteboards and Expo markers, sweetheart.”

“No!” Tim says, desperate, staring at Bruce with wide eyes. “No, I have to, B, you can’t. Please. I’m so close. I have to finish it, please don’t take them, I promise I’ll only work on it for like, what if I agree to only do two hours a day? Or, or I’ll only do it while one of you watches, or something, please?”

“Remember when we were on that roof?” Bruce asks, quietly. 

Tim swallows. 

“I know you don’t want to die right now,” Bruce goes on. “I know that’s not the issue here. But this is a situation where I’m putting my foot down and telling you that this is me, stepping in to keep you safe when you’re not up to doing it yourself. You said you’d trust me to catch you.”

Tim can’t meet Bruce’s eyes, and he looks over at Dr. Thompkins--then realizes he doesn’t want to see what she’s grabbing, probably, not till it’s necessary. He stares firmly at the sheets, twisted up under him. Bruce’s double-gloved hand reaches out slowly and lifts Tim’s chin till he can’t help but meet Bruce’s eyes. 

“You need to do things yourself,” Bruce says. “I understand that. And I understand that you hate being powerless, and that working on the model makes you feel like there’s something you can control. But I’m your parent, right now, for better or worse. I understand that you feel like you  _ have  _ to help. But I need you to trust me,  _ and  _ trust all the rest of us, to keep working while you can’t. We aren’t abandoning anyone. Not you, and not any of the citizens of Gotham, and not anyone else who might end up getting sick. You’re falling through a lot of fear and uncertainty right now. I know it’s terrifying. But you said you’d trust me to catch you, when it’s necessary.” He gives Tim a small smile. “Can you trust me again now? That I’m making the best decision for you, because we all want you to get well, and that I’m trying to give you the best chance at achieving that?” 

Tim’s body hurts, and his head is hazy, sluggish and hot and throbbing, and he’s pretty sure that the struggle is playing out over his face like a movie while Bruce watches, as he stays silent. He doesn’t want to die. He really doesn’t want to die. He’s more afraid of Ebola than probably any other virus in the world. He knows how it infects, how it replicates, the timeline of symptoms as it devastates a body, he knows what’s probably coming, and he’s terrified. But he can’t allow himself to feel it, because if he does than he won’t be able to focus on solving the problem, and if he’s not focused on solving the problem then he has to think about himself, and he has to let go and trust that someone else will deal with it, except that’s hard, because in his experience--

In his experience, most of the time, if you need something taken care of, you have to do it yourself. Adults aren’t always up to the task. 

But...it’s Bruce, asking. Bruce, his...dad...not Batman. But Bruce  _ is  _ Batman, even when he’s not. And Tim trusts Batman. Always. 100%. He’s trusted Batman more than anyone else in the world, even Superman, because Batman has always been real and in Gotham and a constant for most of Tim’s life, and he’s  _ never  _ let Tim down once, even before he knew Tim existed, knew Tim needed help. And Tim maybe can’t trust Bruce as much as he wishes he could right now, because this is big. But Tim can always, always trust Batman. 

Bruce has never let him down so far, he knows, Bruce is so good and Tim doesn’t think he ever  _ will, _ but Bruce is. Bruce is a man, he’s just a person, just an adult, and as much as he’s been different from Tim’s parents, he’s--he’s still--

Batman isn’t a man. Batman is sorta...infallible. He might make mistakes, or not be fast enough, or have trouble not getting too angry at criminals sometimes, but he’s never  _ once  _ given up on anything, or walked away, or not followed through on a promise to even the weakest person in all of Gotham. He’s…

Tim will trust Bruce as much possible. Even if it’s unsettling seeing this side of Bruce, this worried, uncertain side, this Bruce whose face screams a whole lot of things Tim doesn’t know where to begin to parse. Tim will do his best to trust Bruce as a grown up, as a parent, as a dad. 

But Tim can trust Batman, right now. That’s what he needs. Tim can’t be strong enough for Bruce. 

“Batman,” Tim says, not looking away from Bruce’s eyes. 

Confusion flashes across Bruce’s face for just a moment before he seems to understand, and in just a second, Bruce’s demeanor shifts. He’s still Bruce, but he’s--sharper. He sits straighter, holds coiled energy in every muscle, watches with brighter eyes. 

“Robin,” he says, and something in Tim’s brain finally relaxes. 

“Tell me again,” Tim says, trying to ignore the crinkle of sterile plastic packaging from where Leslie stands at the counter. 

Both of Bruce’s hands hold Tim’s shoulders now, and he speaks in a voice that’s all Batman, all nights in the cave and driving through Baskin Robbins for 2 AM ice cream, all reassuring victims and threatening corrupt police. The voice that Tim follows without hesitation, would follow into hell, obeys without question because he knows it will keep everyone as safe and alive as possible. 

“You will not work on the model or anything else while you’re sick,” Batman orders. “You’re going to rest as much as your body asks you to, and you’re going to do things that help you relax while you’re awake. You have to let us take care of you, and trust your body, and trust us to fight for you and for everyone else who needs it. Do you understand, Robin?”

Tim straightens under Bruce’s hands, nodding. “Yes.”

“Your mission is to fight this off,” Batman says. “This is the biggest enemy you’ve faced. But I’m still with you, all right? You’ve got backup, Robin. You don’t have to fight alone.”

“I know,” says Tim, and he’s surprised to find that this time, he does. He means it. “I’ve got this. I’ll do my best. I promise.”

Then Batman is pulling him into a crushing hug. 

“I love you,” Bruce says. “I’ll be whatever you need me to be to get through this. I’ve got you no matter what. I’m not letting you go. You’re Robin, Tim, you’re my kid, you’re stronger than this virus, and we’re going to kick it’s ass.” 

“Master _ Bruce,”  _ Alfred says as the room’s door hisses shut behind him, sounding more exasperated than he has a right to be this early in the day. “Fifty cents into the swear jar, the moment we’re back in the kitchen. Good Lord. I know these are trying times, but I expect you to set a better example for impressionable ears, regardless of circumstances.” 

Dr. Thompkins tries to disguise her laugh as a cough, but no one is fooled. 

Bruce and Tim break apart, more relaxed now with matching grins. Bruce’s eyes nearly twinkle as he grins over at Alfred. “Sorry, Alfred. Didn’t realize you were coming in.”

“Hm,” Alfred says, but he doesn’t truly look upset. 

“So,” says Bruce, looking over at Dr. Thompkins. “What’s the plan? We know that the antibody drugs aren’t working on this strain, so that treatment is out. And of course we have to check Tim’s blood first, to confirm Ebola. But what are we going to do today?”

“I’m going to draw a few vials of Tim’s blood, and get them sent in to the testing lab under a false name,” Leslie says, pushing a little rolling cart with various supplies over next to the bed. Alfred follows right behind. 

“Alvin Draper,” Tim says. 

“What?”

“The name. Alvin Draper. That’s one of the aliases I’ve been building,” Tim explains. “Use that, Bruce already has flags for it set up in like, a million government systems, I’m pretty sure.” 

Bruce doesn’t even bother to look remorseful. 

“Okay,” says Leslie. “Well. Alvin Draper, then. They should get back to us within one to two days and confirm your blood is positive, although I really hope we’re all taking these precautions and it turns out to be a flu still. As unlikely as that is.”

“Stranger things do happen, in this household,” Alfred says.    
“Yeah,” sighs Tim. “But I don’t tend to have that good of luck.”    
“Hey, chin up and fingers crossed, and and all that,” Bruce says, nudging Tim with his shoulder. “You’re not dying yet.”

“Right,” says Tim. He glances at the supplies, then up at Leslie. “Um,” he says, slowly. “I don’t think I’m going to like the answer to this, but. What are these for? What are you going to do?”   
Leslie drags the spinning stool over with one foot and plops down onto it, reaching for Tim’s arm and tying a little rubber strip around his bicep. 

“Right now,” she says, focused on her hands, “I’m going to draw your blood. But before I leave to go get the clinic ready to close, and pack my things to join you all here at the manor for a while, and before all your extremely restless siblings get let into the outer area to harass you for having the  _ audacity  _ to get sick, we’re going to place a PICC line in your arm.”

Tim pales. 

“Why?” he asks, a little shocked and  _ very  _ unhappy. “That’s for--I’m not, like, a CF or cancer patient, why do I need a central line? Isn’t that overkill?” 

Leslie carefully seals his vials of blood in biohazard bags, and then a little locking case, and passes it to Alfred for him to label. She clears off the used supplies while she answers. 

“If this is Ebola, you know as well as I do that it attacks almost all tissues in your body, but especially the cells that make up blood vessels. We don’t have much data to work off of when it comes to treating Ebola in a high-level, ICU-style setting, with all the supplies you could need, but I’m extrapolating here. An IV is working fine at the moment. But this kind of illness is a long haul, and with us not knowing how much your blood vessels will be affected or how quickly, I’m not willing to risk losing IV access unless there’s truly nothing we can do. A PICC line won’t completely take away that risk, but if we place one as soon as possible, it has a better chance of lasting you all the way through this ride, and we won’t have to worry so much about not being able to give you fluids or drugs that you need.”

“I mean…” Tim frowns. “I get it, like, I see your point, but do we--do we have to do it  _ today?” _

“I know you don’t want this,” Dr. Thompkins says sympathetically. “But we really need to do this as soon as possible. The more your body can heal the incision before Ebola makes you prone to hemorrhaging, the safer it will be for you. And putting it off a day or two will only give you more time to dread it, too.”

Bruce wraps Tim in a side hug. 

“We’ll make it as quick as we can,” he promises. 

Tim can’t help the rising dread building in his chest, but he nods anyway, trying to keep up a brave face. “If we gotta,” he says. “You’re right. Might as well get it over with. But if I do just have the flu? And we do this? And it wasn’t necessary? I’m going to be so mad.” 

“If you end up just having the flu,” Leslie says, cheerfully, as she double-checks the supplies and directs Alfred to roll over the table they’re going to lay Tim’s arm out on, “you can have a whole year of scolding-free patch-ups from me after patrols. That’s a promise.”

“Oh,  _ deal,” _ says Tim. 

“I’m going to stick with you while Alfred and Leslie do it,” Bruce promises, as he helps Tim lower the bed until it’s flat. 

Tim makes an agreeing noise as he lies down and tries not to fidget, uncomfortable with so many eyes focused on him while he’s vulnerable and flat. 

“You have a choice, hon,” Leslie says, scooting her stool till she’s next to Tim’s head, meeting his eyes. “Normally, at a regular hospital, since you’re a teenager we’d probably still sedate you to insert the line. But I know you’re not a random teenager, and I know all you Bats have specific feelings sometimes about sedation, so it’s up to you this time whether you want us to briefly put you under or just numb your arm.” 

“Um,” says Tim, eyes flicking over to Bruce. 

“It’s okay,” says Bruce. “You have a few minutes. We’re not quite ready yet. We’re happy to do whatever makes you more comfortable with this, all right?” 

Tim nods, but can’t keep from frowning anxiously. 

“If it helps,” Bruce offers, maybe half a minute later, while Alfred is gently wiping Tim’s arm down with disinfectant, “I had a PICC line once. For a little while.”

“Yeah?” Tim asks. 

“Yeah. I was awake for it. It wasn’t bad.”

“Okay.” Tim takes a few breaths. “I want to stay awake.”

“You sure?” Dr. Thompkins double-checks, while her eyes stay locked on the ultrasound she’s using to find the right spot in Tim’s arm and mark it on his skin.

“Yeah,” says Tim. 

“Alrighty,” she says. “I’m not a radiologist, but I’ve done a few PICC line placements over the years, and I know what I’m doing, I promise. It’s amazing what you get used to doing at a clinic in Gotham.”

Tim laughs a little. 

“Okay, I need you to keep your arms and legs inside the ride at all times, mister, and don’t touch the sterile field.” Dr. Thompkins waits for Alfred to arrange the sterile drape over Tim’s body, lining up the hole with his left bicep, and then add the second smaller drape on top of that, after wiping Tim’s arm down one more time. 

“Numbing your arm now,” Dr. Thompkins informs him, while Bruce lets Tim squeeze his hand under the drape. “You’ll feel the prick, and maybe a little pain, but it’s going to go numb pretty quickly.”

“Hey,” Bruce says, almost immediately, and Tim looks over. “Did I ever tell you about the time that Jason had to get his wisdom teeth out?”

“No,” Tim breathes. “Was this--”

“Before we met you, yes,” Bruce confirms. “Just the summer before, actually. Jason’s teeth started to come in, and the dentist laid down the law and told him that there was no more putting it off.”

“Bet he loved hearing that,” Tim snorts, and wow, yeah, Leslie’s right. His arm is starting to feel numb over there. 

“Definitely,” Bruce snorts, with a wry grin. “He fought Alfred and me for the whole two weeks leading up to the surgery, even though Dick was swearing up and down the whole time that getting his wisdom teeth out had gone just fine and Jason didn’t have anything to worry about.”

“To be fair?” Tim says. “I’m pretty sure I’d raise hell too. I don’t want anyone near my teeth. Mom made me so afraid of failing at dental stuff that most of my recurring stress dreams are about my teeth falling out.”

“That,” says Bruce, “is a topic we will be coming back to at a more appropriate time. But anyway, yes, Jason wasn’t pleased, he almost threw himself out of the car on the way to the oral surgeon.”

“No!” 

“Okay, about to insert it,” Dr. Thompkins murmurs. Alfred’s steady hands grip Tim’s arm and hold it steady. At Leslie’s command, Bruce reaches one hand out to turn Tim’s head to face Alfred and Leslie, and nudges Tim’s chin down to his chest to allow for a smoother insertion. Tim almost closes his eyes when Bruce starts gently rubbing his gloved fingers through Tim’s hair. 

“Oh  _ Yes,” _ Bruce says, and he can’t help laughing this time. “Dick, thank god, thought ahead about potential issues and had actually turned all the child locks on for the backseat. So that was lucky. Once we got to the actual place, Jason kind of just...deflated and acted like he was being led to the gallows like a kicked puppy. It was kind of sad.”

Tim imagines a dejected fifteen or sixteen-year-old Jason dramatically throwing Bruce and Dick despondent looks on the way into the office and laughs, and only barely notices that there’s pressure on his arm. 

“How did he handle the anesthesia afterwards?” Tim asks. 

“Like a champ,” Bruce says, sounding fond. “Dick was absolutely loopy with his, but Jason tried so hard to keep a solid grip on reality that he managed to not seem drugged for maybe half a minute at a time. He couldn’t walk straight in the slightest, though. I gave him a piggy-back ride to the car.”

“You’re serious? You didn’t get any funny video at all?”

“Just stitching the wings down so it stays in place,” Leslie informs him. 

“I didn’t say that,” Bruce grins, as he lets Tim lift his head back up again. “On the ride back, Dick made the mistake of bringing up Animal Planet, and Jason spent twenty minutes straight crying over Steve Irwin on and off and talking about how cool his daughter Bindi is and how proud he is of their whole family, and also how much people misunderstand reptiles and sharks. He begged me for a pet snake, and I’ll be honest, I almost caved.”

“Luckily,” Alfred interjects, “I was able to put a stop to that as they were walking into the house, and Master Jason didn’t remember any of it a few hours later.”

“Aw,” Tim says. “Snakes and lizards are cool. You should have let Jason get one.” 

“He wanted a boa constrictor,” Bruce says, deadpan, “because they just want to hug people, and he didn’t want them to be lonely and unloved.” 

“Oh my god,” Tim laughs hard enough is voice squeaks. “Oh my _ god.” _

“I know,” says Bruce, with a bright smile. “That’s Jason, for you. He also threatened me with his plastic sherbet cup and said he’d turn it into a shank and wasn’t afraid to stab me if I tried taking him to some secondary location and was thinking about getting handsy with him or any other kids. So really, the whole day was a pretty good summary of Jason’s character on...so many levels.”

“Does Jason even know he did all this?” Tim asks. 

“Not all of it. And if you know what’s good for you, you won’t tell him I spilled any of the beans to you. I’d prefer to live to forty-five at least, if you don’t mind.”

“No worries,” Tim says. 

“There you go,” Dr. Thompkins interjects brightly, as she pulls the drapes away and wads them up, letting Alfred roll the tray over to the counter to clean up. “Two-lumen line safely in, dressing on, you’re good to go, mister.” 

“Thanks,” says Tim, glancing down to look, while Bruce hands him the remote to raise the head of the bed back to where he wants it. “That wasn’t actually bad at all.”

“I do try,” Dr. Thompkins grins. 

“Think you’re up to seeing the siblings?” Bruce asks, as he stands from the crouch he’d been in next to Tim this whole time, and pops his back loudly. 

Tim grimaces. “I guess I have to be,” he says. 

“I can hold them off a while longer. You’re the one in quarrantine, they can be patient till you’re ready.”

“No,” says Tim, shuffling around till he’s sitting criss-cross-applesauce on the mattress, holding his arm out patiently while Dr. Thompkins shifts the line for saline from his earlier IV to one of the lines of the PICC and removes the IV catheter from his hand, replacing it with one of their usual Batman band-aids. “I want to see them. I just don’t want…”

“You don’t want all the sad faces and big feelings,” Bruce supplies. “I’ll try to talk to them before they all stampede into the outer area.” 

“Thanks.” 

So Alfred and Leslie check Tim’s vitals and get his temperature one more time, promising he’ll get a few more hours of (relative) peace before someone checks him next, and roll out behind Bruce, who heads off to gather all the various children and send them Tim’s way. 

Tim does some breathing exercises and meditates for a few minutes, like he imagines Bruce would do, and braces himself for a long, long morning and what’ll probably be hours of scheming to figure out how they can all still continue marathoning movies with Tim suddenly stuck behind glass. 

He wonders, absently, if he’ll still be allowed to have some of the popcorn. And then the door to the outer area absolutely  _ slams  _ into the wall, letting in a tumble of Very Agitated Siblings, and there’s scolding and a little crying and a  _ lot  _ of Dick’s terrible puns about every forty seconds like clockwork, since he’s nervous, and Tim can’t help but laugh and feel like things aren’t really all that bad yet, after all. 

* * *

That afternoon, after everyone’s eaten Alfred’s wonderful cooking and quoted Pride and Prejudice so constantly throughout the whole movie that they drowned out the actual audio, Bruce finally kicks everyone out so Tim can get some down time. 

He appreciates it. He loves his family, and it’s really nice to not be left alone and stuck in this one room without anyone else to talk to, but Tim is tired. He’s sick, and he hurts, and he didn’t really let on, but a couple hours ago his headache moved from “a little annoying” to “please stop talking, you’re making my head throb to the rhythm of your voice, I’m begging you”. He’s pretty sure Bruce and Alfred noticed anyway. Tim can’t even really nap because it’s just over the threshold of too-strong-to-relax-fully.

So Alfred comes in and gives him more acetaminophen, for his fever and headache, and agrees Tim can stop getting IV saline for now so long as he keeps drinking more than enough water and Gatorade on his own. Then after a quick pat to Tim’s head and an encouraging British quip, Alfred heads out again and Tim is left to curl up on his bed and play some Animal Crossing till Bruce allows Tim’s devices back onto the internet in a few hours. 

After maybe an hour or so, Tim is just in the middle of planting a new grove of perfect pear trees when there’s movement in his peripheral vision, and he looks up to see--

Jason is standing there, right outside the room, and he smacks an enormous piece of white poster board against the glass with a  _ thunk _ . His other hand drops a Ziploc bag of sharpie markers on the floor so he can flick the intercom switch on, and Jason stares Tim down with as intense a look as Tim’s ever seen. 

_ “You,”  _ Jason nearly growls, “are not allowed to die, you little asshole. I don’t care if you’ve got Plague X from Planet Zarkon, or whatever, you’re my little brother and I don’t give you permission to leave. Got it?” 

“Got it,” Tim parrots, dumbly. “Uh--”

“If you die, I will bring you back to life  _ myself  _ so that I can shout at you for three days straight about it and then not let you out of this house until you’re thirty years old.”

Tim stares. “Jason,” he says, a little alarmed at how red his brother’s eyes are getting. 

“I am  _ not crying,”  _ Jason snaps. He immediately scrubs at one eye with his free hand. “It’s just dusty. ‘S’not like Alfie has much reason to clean in here often.”

“Right.” 

“Right. I’m not crying.”

“Are you okay?” Tim asks, tentatively. 

Jason scowls at him and points sharply at the posterboard. “We are making you a bucket list,” Jason says firmly. Tim’s never heard him sound more like Bruce.

“A bucket list?”

“A bucket list. And then you can’t die, because we’re going to do everything on it. And it’s gonna stay right here on the glass where you can see it, and think about what you want to do first, and if you think of more things, then we’ll just add more poster board. This is all the stuff you’ve wanted to do but haven’t gotten to yet, okay, all the big stuff and really stupid little stuff, because god knows your parents made you think most of that wasn’t proper enough for a good kid to do.” 

“Okay,” says Tim. “A...a bucket list.”

“Or a ‘fuck you, Ebola, I got things to do and places to be’ list, if you like,” Jason offers. “Come on. There’s gotta be something you want to do. Any parks you want to see? Anyone you want to kiss? Some country you want to visit? Get a promise from Superman to give you a ride through the sky?” Jason plops down onto his knees, digging out a thick black marker to write some kind of title across the top of the board, and then uncapping a neon blue Sharpie while he glances up to pin Tim with his fierce gaze. 

Tim bites his lip. 

“Come on,” Jason says again, a little more gently this time. “Doesn’t matter what it is. This is what you want to do. Anything.” 

“I...always wanted to go swim in a lake,” Tim says.

“You’ve never been to a lake?” 

“Nope.” Tim shakes his head while Jason hunches over to scribble it down. “Mom and Dad never took me. And Mom is terrified of all water she can’t see through, anyway.”

“Dude, that’s just sad,” Jason says. “I can’t believe you’ve been living with us this long and we haven’t been out to the cabin B’s parents owned by the lake. We gotta fix that. Good one. Okay, what else?”

“I, uh, want to play every single Pokemon game, in order,” Tim says. “I only started playing them with Alpha Sapphire.”

“Yes,” Jason hisses. “Dick is gonna go bananas. Next?”

“See a real kangaroo,” Tim says. 

They go on like this for a while till they reach the end of the poster board, filling in everything from  _ prank Bruce (something with Batmobile?) _ to  _ visit Watchtower with the Justice League, _ and Jason cracks his neck to each side before looking up at Tim. 

“We’ve got room for one more, Timbo. What do you think?”

Tim flops backwards onto the bed and stares up at the florescent lights, thinking about something a teacher told them about years ago on one slow afternoon that’s never quite left Tim’s mind. 

“I…” he starts. “There’s this park,” he says, “out in--I think it’s Utah? I’m not sure. But it’s like. One of the out-West ones. It’s a dark sky site, and it’s also t’s got this place in it called Dead Horse Point and it’s supposed to be, like, so stunning when you get to the peak finally that it takes your breath away. I want to go photograph that at sunrise--my teacher said that if you hike out there just before the sun rises, you can catch it in the blue hour and everything is just these amazing colors of sediment layers and glowing sky, and then when the sun finally peeks over the horizon--” Tim’s breath hitches, to his surprise, but he’s not about to cry. He’s not sure what he’s feeling. “I want to go there,” he finishes. “I want to see the sunrise, and I want to see the stars.”

Jason is quiet while he writes down  _ go see Dead Horse Point, sun & stars, _ in vibrant green on the last remaining space on the poster board, and then he shoves upright so he can duct tape it to the glass facing Tim. He stands next to it and stares at his little brother for a moment, while Tim sits up. 

“There,” says Jason. “Now you can’t die, for real, okay?”

Tim slides out of bed onto his bare feet, wiggling his toes for a second at the cold of the tiles, and watches Jason carefully while he pads over to the glass to read the list they came up with. 

At the top of the board, in Jason’s careful printing, it says  _ Tim’s Reasons To Live _ . 

“It’s just part one,” Jason says, and to his credit, his voice doesn’t crack. “We’ll--we’ll add to it more, whenever you want. Okay?”

Tim feels--Tim can’t even put words to how many things he’s feeling at once, just knows that they’re big, and beautiful, and kind of terrifying, and if he wasn’t locked in right now he isn’t entirely sure that he’d be able to stop himself from running out the door. Just to hug his big brother one more time for--for just everything. Everything, all of it, all this time, every day since their school got turned into an ice cube, every day since Jason noticed Tim in the hallways before Tim ever realized he was on Jason’s radar, every day since Jason bullied Tim into coming home with him and started to slowly give him a family, Tim--Tim doesn’t know what to say. 

He places one hand on the glass in front of Jason, next to the list, and thinks, this is my biggest reason to live. Jason. Bruce. Dick, Alfred, my whole family. I can’t leave them. This, he thinks. This, this, this, if I can’t convince myself I’m gonna live just for myself, I’m gonna do it for them. 

“I love you,” Tim whispers. “Jason. Jay, I love you so much, I love you, okay, you’re so--I’ve never deserved this, but you’ve always been coming after me anyway, all the time, and you’re the reason I have a real family, and I love you so much, and I don’t want to leave you.”

“I know, baby bird,” Jason says, placing his own hand on the glass to line up with Tim’s. “I love you too. I’m--fuck. I’m so proud of you. I don’t even know how to begin telling you how proud I am of you, but I am, and I’m so glad you’re in our family now, and I love you so much. We’re not going to let you die, okay? We’re not. We won’t let you.”

“Okay,” says Tim.

“Okay.” 

“No dying,” Tim promises. “You either.”

“No dying,” Jason agrees. “Who knows, maybe I’ll get sick too, and we’ll get to have a sleepover in there and threaten each other into getting well 24/7. Who needs cheerleader dick when you have a brother to scare your cells into fighting invaders?”

“Not funny,” Tim says, but he can’t help smiling a little. 

“It’s a little funny,” Jason says. 

“No.”

“Come on. Just a little.”

“It’s not!” Tim scolds, “you can’t get sick too. You’re not allowed!” But he does give Jason a real grin anyway. 

Jason glances back over his shoulder suddenly, eyes wide. 

“Ah, shit,” he mumbles. “I hear B yelling for me. I kinda-maybe-sorta snuck out from where he left me to come see you, and he told us not to bother you, but fuck that, man. I’ll be back soon. Don’t rat me out to him or Alfred?” And then Jason is vanishing through the outer door, presumably to scramble into a nearby room before Bruce makes it into the main area. 

“But--your markers and stuff are still right here,” Tim laughs, to an empty room. “You--whatever.” 

He walks back over to his bed and hops up on it, flicking Animal Crossing back on and trying to figure out if he’d watered the most recently-planted sapling yet or not. 

Bruce came and knocked on the glass, glancing over at the still-on intercom and the . 

“Hey Tim,” he drawls. “Seen Jason anywhere, lately?”

Tim looks up and stares Bruce right in the eye.

“Nope,” he says, fighting to keep a straight face. 

“Really.”

“Mm hm.”

“Interesting,” says Bruce. “Guess a ghost came in and left these markers and this poster here, then.”

“Guess so,” Tim agrees, one side of his mouth betraying him and twitching up for a moment. 

“Hmmmm,” Bruce says, narrowing his eyes, but he gives Tim a little smile. “Well. If you do see any wayward siblings, do you mind letting them know Alfred has requested help cleaning the Summer armor on display in the East wing hallway, every inch of it, and he’s looking for any excuse to rope someone into it?”

Tim snorts. “I’ll--uh. I’ll make sure and let them know,” he says. 

“Great,” Bruce says, brightly. “Well. Hope you’re feeling all right. I’ll be in a couple hours from now with dinner, and maybe we can play a little chess?”

“Sounds good,” says Tim, as Bruce turns to head out. “Love you, B.”

Bruce smiles back over one shoulder as he nudges the door open and starts to head out. “Love you too, sweetheart. Drink some water. And take a nap, will you? Just because you’re official sick, that doesn’t give you permission to stop napping once a day. Your immune system needs it more than ever.”

“Yes, B,” Tim says, with a lazy salute. “Got it.”

Then Bruce is out the door, leaving Tim to Animal Crossing and a list of  _ hopefully-maybe-definitely-somedays _ and a lot of warmth both inside and out, and a lot more hope than he had when he woke up that morning. 

He’s got the best medical care he can ask for. He’s as comfortable as possible right now, and he’s got warm blankets, and things to do, and all in all, not a bad quarantine setup. But most importantly, he’s got more than just family that will fight for him. More than just people who won’t let him go. 

Tim’s got a family and a future to fight  _ for _ . 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone wants info about the coronavirus situation, I have my most up to date summary post here: https://goldkirk.tumblr.com/post/612623553533181952  
> And you can feel free to come ask me questions on my tumblr @goldkirk. 
> 
> Next chapter should be done within a week, promise!


	22. all i wanted was to be good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim just wanted to make the world better, to help. He didn't want to make anyone else fight for him. (alternately titled: Live, Timmy. You've got this, and your family's got _you._ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content warning: this whole chapter is basically one giant medical trigger warning. There are no mentions of needles, but there are mentions of vomit, blood, diarrhea, and some invasive measures like ventilation and wrist restraints (vaguely hinted at, not described in detail). If you've seen someone you loved spend time in an ICU and been deeply affected by it, take it easy with this chapter and stop reading if you need to. I'll give a recap summary if you need it instead, ask over at my tumblr or in the comments here.**
> 
> Chapter title is from Sights and Sounds by The Rocketboys, who are an astoundingly underrated band and make me cry every year, especially with Viva Voce, which I have cried to in the car at obscene hours of the morning and night more times than I will legally admit.

Tim wants to say that it was just a flu, that it got better after a day, that he didn’t need the PICC line. He wants to say it was a false alarm, and that he was back out of quarantine in two days to play with Nova and prank Bruce with Jason’s help. 

But the test comes back positive. 

_Ebola Ebola Ebola,_ and Tim’s fever spikes so suddenly in the middle of the second evening that it takes him what feels like a thousand years (and is probably more like three minutes, max) to press his call button because _wow, this is not okay,_ and he doesn’t know if he’s ever had a fever this high before, and it is just. The _worst_. 

Dr. Thompkins sprints through the door to the outer area with Bruce hot on her heels, because Bruce is unfailingly Like That, but also because Tim has never once used a call button before in his life. As much as Tim hates it, it’s become a running family joke that he never uses a call button in the cave medbay, no matter how much he’s needed pain meds after a bad injury or just someone to help him hobble over to the locker area and get dressed. For all they know right now, he’s probably dying or in danger of being murdered by a new alien threat. 

Tim can partly see them from where he’s lying limp as a rag doll on his sweaty sheets, one single foot still tucked under a twisted-up blanket. Bruce and Leslie are quickly pulling on protective gear, checking each other over, and Tim watches through soupy swirls of time that feel glitchy and distant as if something has slowed down his brain to run as a computer twelve years out of date with maxed-out RAM. 

Tim blinks, and there’s the wall, and something itches on his neck—sweat, maybe?—and he blinks again, and there’s Bruce, crouching in front of him, saying something. Tim sees Bruce’s mouth moving, and there are sounds, but it’s just—Tim’s _lagging_ , Bruce, give him a second, okay, it’s _hard._

Someone is taking his temperature, and the glove is so cold against his forehead as it holds his head still that he can’t help pressing into it. He misses this. 

He misses the _touch,_ he misses people, it’s only been a day and he just wants to feel someone else’s skin so badly that if he had any energy left from the stupid virus he’d be pacing the room till a hole is worn in the floor. 

The gear is here for a reason. He knows. He doesn’t want anyone else to get sick with this. He _knows_. He can’t touch anyone unless he gets well. 

He knows.

And Tim--he’s gone so much longer than this without touching people before. Most of his years growing up have been filled with empty spaces and hours curled up alone with blankets instead of people. Weeks where each accidental bump in a school hallway sucking his breath away for the half-second it takes him to yank his arm back into his personal bubble. He’s done this a thousand times. He should be _fine_.

Not even two years with the Waynes, and he’s turned into a starving baby koala, liable to strangle the next person that gets close enough for him to grab. 

The now-warm glove leaves his forehead as the thermometer is removed from his mouth, and Tim squeezes his eyes shut and _keens_. 

“Oh, buddy,” Tim hears someone say from a distance. A rubber-coated hand lands in his sweaty hair. He’s so hot.

Tim catches snatches of words. Scattered information, interspersed with unavoidable flashes of his own body screaming for his attention. _104.7, Bruce, he can’t--seizures--down,_ and Tim’s shaking arms finding the sudden strength to fling his upper body towards the side railing just in time for someone to shove a bin under his mouth while he vomits up the small amount of dinner he’d managed to eat that evening. 

He hears _fluids,_ and _no blood,_ and a quick _thank god,_ and if he could speak through the lava in his throat right now as he collapses back onto the clammy sheets he’d tell them his stomach feels like something has stabbed and _twisted,_ hard _,_ and then there’s something reassuring about _hanging in there_ and Tim can’t stop himself from drifting off into an uncomfortable doze. 

The hand is still on his now-clean hair when he wakes. But the rubber between skin and skin is two layers deep and a thousand miles away from what Tim needs, and he goes back to sleep wondering if he’ll ever feel another person’s touch one more time before he dies. 

* * *

So it turns out that high fevers and dehydration do not make your brain a very smart place to be, and Tim immediately shoves every thought from the previous night into a box and firmly locks it when he wakes up the next day at a much more reasonable temperature. 

His appetite is close to negative fifty, but he eats bits and pieces of every bland thing Alfred has put on a tray for him, because he has to fight. He spends the day in bed, getting fluids and fever reducer around the clock, chatting with siblings when he’s up to it and sleeping more hours than he’s awake.

“It’s good for you,” Alfred says gently, when he comes to take Tim’s barely-touched lunch and startles Tim out of another nap. “Your body knows what it needs. Sleep fights illness.”

Tim’s sure Alfred’s right, because Alfred is right about everything, basically. But as Alfred heads out of the room that’s become Tim’s most detested prison, as of the first five minutes that he finally felt too exhausted to even get out of bed and walk to the glass wall, Tim feels salty anyway. 

He doesn’t want to sleep. He wants to _work_. He wants to feel okay. He wants to help fix this, and he wants to not be a burden on his already-stressed family, who didn’t even _need_ to get stuck with taking care of him, he could have avoided this whole thing if he’d just stayed with his parents and not let himself get attached to the Waynes--and now that he is taking up the manor’s resources and the time of the people in it, he isn’t even working on the one thing he could still do to try to predict areas of biggest spread. He’s not even helping consolidate info on leads, he’s not helping them find where this came from. Tim thinks, _I’m not worth this kind of investment, I’m taking Batman’s attention away from a literal crisis, and it doesn’t matter what Bruce says, he’s biased and can’t look at this objectively--_

Tim’s asleep again before he can finish that line of thought.

* * *

Tim wakes up crying from the pain, passes out again with his next dose of meds, wakes up again, and repeats. 

Leslie promises him it won’t be this bad forever. Tim follows Alfred’s rule and holds his tongue instead of snapping back while he curls in the fetal position against one of the side rails of his bed, because if he can’t find something nice to say, he oughtn’t say anything at all. He falls asleep dragged down mostly by the drugs and his exhausted body. Bruce is at the glass when Tim wakes up already crying in his sleep.

Bruce stands there, still as a statue in the armor with his cowl down, watching Tim with an expression Tim doesn’t think he was ever meant to see. 

It’s gone in half a second, and Tim doesn’t even know what to call it, only that it’s not something he thinks Bruce ever lets out around his kids. There was a lot of pain. And a lot of fear. And some things Tim hasn’t learned on his feelings lists from Dinah, yet, but if he ever does find a name for them, he thinks they’ll probably just hurt. But the look is gone now, and it’s just Bruce. 

Just Bruce standing outside Tim’s room, in the suit, smiling at Tim with all the grounding confidence he normally projects, all the encouragement Tim needs, and even though it’s less than two seconds since Tim saw through the cracks, he’s reassured anyway. This is his Bruce. This is the Bruce who hopes for the best even when life keeps throwing flaming arrows at his family from on high. This is the Bruce who holds Tim through the realizations, brings him in from the cold, and promises it’ll be okay. And this Bruce pulls up the cowl, after a moment, tugs it into place, and then his whole stance changes as he slips into the role.

Batman becomes half-shadow in the dim nighttime light spilling out through the glass, a figure of myth and a million childhood hopes, and he nods once at Tim, firm and sure, raises his hands from inside the cape, signs _miss you patrol,_ _love_ , and _get well,_ waves once, and vanishes back through the outer doorway. Tim still hurts. His abdomen is on fire and being stabbed at the same time, but Batman misses him, and Bruce misses him, and Tim’s expected to be strong enough to get better. He’s Robin. He’s BatWatch, for god’s sake. Tim can do this. This is just pain, it’s just pain, it doesn’t matter if his insides are falling apart, he can heal. He’s going to do this.

Tim falls asleep reciting the polyatomic ions and using every pain control technique Batman has ever taught him, and he breathes, and he breathes, and he drifts off before Leslie needs to give him another dose.

When he wakes up the next time, the pain is still there, but there’s a line of paper-plate-and-popsicle stick figures taped to the glass next to his poster board. Every one of them has a cut out photo of someone’s face on it, surrounded by yarn hair that looks like a second-grader’s art project. He sees about a million sparkles on Dick’s. Jason’s has a sloppy felt beanie over his black yarn hair. Someone glued a little yarn mustache over Alfred’s face that’s about twice the size it ought to be, and there’s a little paper doodle of a mug in his hand. They included terrible little doodles of all three dogs and Teacup, too, and in the middle of a wave of pain Tim manages a tiny smile. 

He rolls over stiffly and drifts back off, a little less miserable, a little more at home. 

* * *

He FaceTimes his parents for the first several days, as much as possible, while he still can. They don’t really know how to interact. 

The first day he and Bruce messaged them to tell them the family had been exposed, they’d been so upset they threatened everything from calling CPP to suing Bruce for child endangerment and emotional damage. Tim, in what was a far cry from anything last-year-him would ever consider doing, leaned across the coffee table and just hit the end call button before Bruce could stop him. 

“They don’t get to talk to you like that,” Tim said, furious, and it’s true now but it was true back then, back in Drake Manor’s kitchen with his parents and the same emotions for different reasons. Back before Tim lived here. 

“That was rude,” Bruce scolded. 

Tim swallows. 

“But I’m proud of you anyway.” 

Tim blinked at him. “You. What?” 

“Boundaries,” Bruce said, slinging an arm around Tim’s shoulder. “Maybe could have used a little polish. But that was you enforcing boundaries on their behavior. It’s not easy. I’m proud of you.”

“Oh,” said Tim, while Bruce squeezed him tight, once, and then they didn’t respond to his parents for two days until they calmed down and were willing to talk it out like reasonable adults. 

And now Tim’s chatting with them every time he’s awake and up to it, provided there aren’t siblings around. He assures them he’s getting amazing care, that he’s feeling fine, no, nothing is too bad, he absolutely wasn’t crying at two in the morning while his body is being hijacked by an army of viral machines, no, he isn’t scared, yes, his fever is under control most of the time, and no, the rash doesn’t itch badly. It’s not even a rash, he explains, it’s just lots of little capillaries under his skin bursting because they’ve gotten weak from the Ebola attacking their walls. 

That doesn’t comfort his parents. Oops?

Tim changes the subject to Nova, and her habit of curling up in front of the glass wall to his room and waiting for him to wake up so they can play together vicariously with Jason as Tim’s stand-in physical body. 

They don’t talk about Tim’s prognosis, and they don’t talk about Janet’s clear decline. They don’t talk about funerals, and they don’t talk about _maybes_ , and they definitely don’t talk about the way both Tim and Janet are accumulating monitoring equipment near-daily like it’s the newest fashion trend. 

The difference between them is that Tim might get better, but Janet’s only going to get worse. Tim prays quietly every night to the god he doesn’t even know if he believes in that he can get out of here before she dies, that he can see her one last time, that it’s not going to be too late. That if he gets well, they’ll relax the isolation rules just this once and let him see her, let him say sorry, let him say goodbye. 

“Look, mom,” he mumbles, with as much amusement as he can muster, pointing to the oxygen cannula he’s landed himself with ever since the vomiting and diarrhea started up on his third day. “We match!”

Janet snorts, and can’t lift her head up from the pillow to glare at him properly, but he gets the point anyway. 

“Tim,” Jack scolds, without much heat. 

“Gotta whistle in the dark somehow.”

“Tim, please.”

“It’s okay,” Janet says. “He’s got a point.”

“How are you feeling, son?” Jack asks, tentatively. 

Tim considers, then shrugs. “About the same. Not as bad as this morning. Dr. Thompkins put me on new meds.”

“What are they?” Jack asks. “You’re on an awful lot. I’m not sure it’s a great idea for--”

“I’m not sure,” Tim interrupts him, a little bit of ice in his quiet voice. “I was a little busy, you know, _puking up blood_ to pay too much attention. I’m going to leave the medicine to a real doctor. I love not dying.”

Jack shuts up. 

“Tim,” Janet tries, sounding like several things Tim doesn’t have the energy to name. 

“I’m sorry,” he says flatly. “Forget it. How are you feeling?”

Janet shoots him a look, but takes the change in topic with a sigh. 

“Oh, you know.” One of her hands flutters at her side, too weak to lift more than an inch off of the mattress. “Pretty well, all things considered. We watched a livestream tour of that Egyptian dig site this morning.”

“Really?” Tim asks. 

They spend another half hour talking quietly about what the archaeologists have been finding, with Janet and Tim frequently pausing to breathe through pain, or shortness of breath, or a surprise round of vomiting on Tim’s end that requires a brief visit from Alfred and cordial but formal greetings all around. 

They hang up with quick _talk to you soon_ s and an awkward _feel better, son,_ from Jack, who shows up at the very end after vanishing for the better part of fifteen minutes with a muttered excuse. 

That evening, Tim doesn’t make it through the first ten minutes of _Treasure Planet_ before drifting off in the middle of Jason’s word-for-word live reenactments. Fifteen minutes after that, he sets off the first of many alarms. 

No one finishes the movie that night. 

* * *

The world passes Tim in flashes after that. 

* * *

There’s so much in his throat that he wakes up into an instant panic, wondering _why are there things here, why can’t I move, my arm is on fire, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe I can’t breathe_ and gets an inch up off the mattress before he collapses back down under his own body screaming in every nerve and a firm hand pressing on his chest. Every single part of him hurts more than he ever has thought possible, he hurts in places he doesn’t even know, everything is just _pain_ . And he can’t _breathe,_ he’s choking--

Tim’s half-open eyes flicker back and forth as he uses what little energy he has to twist, shudder, try anything he can to get his throat clear, and there are hands on his chest, someone’s saying something over and over and over but Tim can’t hear, he can’t breathe--

A hand on his forehead now, while tears leak out, and he’s just too tired to keep fighting this. His body goes limp, his chest shuddering unevenly as he fights to breathe. Rubber catches little strands of his hair every half-inch or so as another hand cards through his limp curls, slowly, gently, and he feels the tears slipping across his temples to join the sweat in his hair as something burns its way up his right arm and he suddenly finds himself drifting off and not caring about anything at all, anymore, really. It’s just kind of silly. 

And Tim is so tired.

* * *

Tim can’t really feel his body, but he can tell it’s been a while since the last time he was awake. He’s drifting on some kind of numb ocean that means he’s on a _lot_ of painkillers, like an absolute buttload--Jason should be laughing, where’s Jason?--and while he’s distantly aware that his throat is still full of something, he finds he doesn’t really care. He makes a couple halfhearted attempts to suck in a breath or two, but it hardly is any different, and he doesn’t feel like he’s suffocating this time, so he figureshe ought to leave well enough alone. The attempt is apparently enough to alert someone, though, because he hears a couple faint bongs, and then there’s a gloved hand slipping into one of his that he barely feels.

_Did I get hurt on patrol? What’s going on?_

Tim concentrates really, really hard, and tries to remember how to move his hands. He manages to scoot one just a little bit, but there’s something around his wrist and it feels weird. 

“Tim,” he hears. 

_What?_

“Tim,” a little more clearly. “Tim. Can you hear me?”

_I’m here. I’m right here. What happened? I’m right here._

“Can you squeeze my hand?” And then, more quietly, as if the person turns away for a moment, “--don’t know. Looked like he was fighting the--not responding--”

Tim, faintly frustrated, manages to finally twitch his fingers in the hand that’s holding his. 

“Tim?” the voice says one more time, rushed and full of a quiet intensity. “Tim, if you’re hearing me, squeeze one more time, okay kiddo?” 

Tim tries to remember how to squeeze, and he must do a decent enough job of it, because as he lets his whole arm go limp with hot, heavy fatigue again, there’s an excited exclamation somewhere in the distance. 

A hand on his forehead, against his cheek. It feels weird with his mouth stuck open. Why is it like that?

“We lowered the sedation for a little while,” the voice is saying. He sluggishly tries to tune back in. “We can’t take you off yet, but if you--” 

_Off what?_ Tim thinks. _Sedation, why--_

“--mask. Later, maybe.”

What? What is going on? Why is there something--why is he sedated, what happened? He can feel something hard and full down his airway, and there’s so much pressure, he can feel more now, and it’s like his whole body got hit by a truck. What is wrong with him? There’s something wet on his face. It itches. 

“--shit--another nosebleed--”

Tim doesn’t know what’s going on. He squeezes frantically at the hand in his as best he can while the rubber gloves vanish from his forehead and cheek, and there’s something cool and damp against his lip, but his lip is touching hard plastic--

There’s a loud alarm going off somewhere, and another muffled curse, and Tim feels his heart in a way he’s never felt before--like it’s doing some sort of jump in his chest, or a lopsided twist maybe, and he hates it. 

“--going to be okay, Tim, we all love you so much. I promise. Hang on, sweeth--” is the last thing he catches before sound goes away and he’s off into oblivion with just the feel of the cool rubber fingers slipping out of his following him down. 

* * *

He rises to awareness just enough to take in the room through blurry eyes, a figure at the edge of his vision, hunched over. There’s a bubble around his head, and something in his nose, down his throat, but not the pressure from before, just a little discomfort that’s barely worth thinking about. 

He tries to make a noise, but the only thing that comes out is a choked squeak. He swallows against the pain, and then forces himself to not swallow against more pain that comes from the swallow. 

The figure straightens immediately. It’s Dick. 

“Tim!” 

He’s up and leaning over the bed between Tim’s slow blinks. 

“I’m sorry I can’t give you anything to drink right now,” Dick says, and his face twists up as if it really pains him. “Can’t take the ventilator helmet off you, even for just a minute right now.”

Tim’s question must show on his face, because Dick answers as if he can read Tim’s mind. 

“It’s newer than masks,” he explains. “A doctor friend of Leslie’s recommended it. Better health outcomes than using a traditional ventilator mask.”

That explains...very little. 

Dick plops back down heavily in his chair and raises one hand up to rake through his hair, but it hits the suit and Dick sighs. His hand drops down to grip the side railing of Tim’s bed instead. 

“Okay,” Dick says, speaking more quickly than usual, the way he does when he’s nervous. “I dunno how long you’re actually gonna be awake, but, um. Hi, oh my god, Tim, I love you--just wanted to get that out of the way. We’ve been so scared. You just--you crashed in like, ten minutes flat on movie night, just--” He shakes his head. “You really scared us. I’ve never seen anything like that in my life. But, um. Dr. Thompkins and Alfred and Bruce got you kind of stable again, and you’ve been out for several days on a breathing tube, and--you’ve got a feeding tube in, right now, if you can feel that, I don’t know. But the breathing tube got taken out last night once you were a little stronger. You’re not getting better yet, like, for real, but you’re better than a few days ago at least. Which is to say, not actively dying on us again.”

Tim believes that. He feels like he’s been run over, put through a steamroller, thrown off a cliff, and given the absolute worst flu of his entire life all at once. 

“Normally Bruce would be in here,” Dick says. “Unless Leslie kicked him out to go sleep. But--”

Tim’s alarmed noise makes it through clear as day, and Dick scowls at him. 

“Oh, don’t you dare,” he scolds. “Bruce is not the only hero in the world, Jason and I are filling in for him where we can without being in danger. And the Justice League is doing a lot to help. Plus a bunch of minor heroes are basically being Batman’s gophers right now, running all over the world to follow leads and hunt down clues. He’s not neglecting anything to stay with you, you ding dong. Calm down.”

Tim glares right back with as much strength as he can muster, but his blinks are getting longer. His chest feels like he was stepped on by an elephant. Or maybe Godzilla. 

“So I’ve been sitting here for a while,” Dick rushes on, “because B is out following, like, the biggest lead we’ve found, because he wouldn’t let anyone else do it, since it’s--I’m not supposed to tell you, sorry, shit--and, um, anyway, I made a list of all the questions I figured I’d probably have if I was waking up from a few-day-long coma, and--just. Here. Ready?”

Tim gives a little thumbs up. 

“Okay. So. All the rest of us are fine, just super worried about you. There was a scare with Jason a couple days ago, but that actually _was_ just the flu, which sucks, but like. Way better than Ebola. So yeah, Jason’s in bed being taken care of by Alfie and Leslie while he sleeps and complains and sleeps some more, and he’s already tried to break out twice to come see you over here, so Bruce put one of those baby door alarms on his door, which was hilarious--”

Tim’s whole body hurts when he shakes once or twice with an attempt at a laugh.

“Oh god, sorry,” Dick apologizes, squeezing Tim’s hand as best he can with the gloves and suit. “But it _was_ really funny. Anyway, everyone’s fine, besides that. Your mom is a little worse, but she calls Bruce once a day to get an update on you. The Justice League says hi. Stephanie wants you to know your video game collection is disgustingly lacking in the relaxing game department, and demands that you try Stardew Valley soon. You’re still really, really sick, and we haven’t given up finding a treatment, but...no luck so far. But your body is still fighting! You’ve gotten a couple blood transfusions, and Dr. Thompkins is supplementing whatever you need day to day while your body fights, and we’re all rooting for you. You’re doing a great job, Tim. You’re still here.”

Tim gives him another thumbs up, and closes his eyes. 

“The city’s hit hard,” Dick goes on, quietly. “It’s...I’m not gonna lie, it’s pretty bad. But Gotham hasn’t given up either, and some people have survived, so. There’s hope. And we found your kids! A couple are sick right now, but this lady over on McKelvey who apparently brings them food and clothes a lot took a ton of them out to her family’s farm in rural New Jersey that first night when she saw things go south. They got out of Gotham just a little while before we did, in the opposite direction. 

Tim doesn’t think he’s ever felt so relieved in his life. It’s like a weight lifts off his entire heart, and he feels nearly dizzy with the good news. 

He blinks his eyes open, struggling as they do their best to close and pull him down again, but he looks over to the glass where his popsicle stick family and reasons to live are, and then looks over at Dick, and then closes his eyes while Dick squeezes his hand tightly. 

“I’m not leaving till someone else comes,” Dick promises, as Tim starts to drift off again while the machines beep or hum around him in an off-tune chorus. “We aren’t leaving you alone. Get some more rest, Timbit. We love you.”

* * *

Tim wakes up two more times that day; once with Alfred sitting next to him reading aloud from _The King of Attolia,_ once with a suited up figure leaned over his railing, not saying a word but watching Tim with damp eyes, who Tim has just enough time to realize is _Jack_ of all people before he slips under again _, and_ once to Dr. Thompkins swapping out bags on his IV pole while Cass watches like a hawk from outside the glass. 

She signs back and forth with Tim for a minute before he’s out like a light again. Both times he wakes after Dick is there, anyone within eye or ear-shot gets in at least one we love you before he conks out on them, like the whole family is determined to make sure he knows, that he can’t forget. 

Falling asleep isn’t as bad that way. He remembers they’re waiting for him, instead of only being consumed by the fear that he might not wake up again.

Tim keeps breathing.

* * *

What happens after that, Tim never remembers himself. He learns about it in flashes, bits and pieces that the others are willing to tell him sometimes, reluctant to describe the worst days no matter how much Tim harasses them with questions. But Tim knows that after that last good day, he apparently slid downhill and didn’t stop. 

It was less than 24 hours before Dr. Thompkins had a breathing tube back down his throat while his whole body did its best to crash out on her and Alfred, and they fought to balance levels and get potassium in him and replace lost blood for hours. 

He knows he spent several days in an induced coma, and that Bruce nearly came back from Siberia then and there. He knows that his siblings and Stephanie started camping out in the outer room as much as they could get away with, determined to stay nearby just in case. 

He knows he gave Dr. Thompkins a few near-heart-attacks when he goes into cardiac arrests himself, and cost her two nights of sleep towards the end while his kidneys failed and his lungs barely moved and his heart did its best to stop working so hard and just go on permanent vacation. 

He knows he was in the early stages of active dying when Bruce called Superman, who arrived at his location in seconds, and the Green Lantern, who was not far behind. Tim is told that he and his mother were in Cheyne-Stokes breathing patterns at the same time, while across the globe, Hal Jordan used the ring to haul a giant stockpile of antibody drug courses and vaccines as fast as possible across the ocean towards Gotham. While Superman bent down enough for Batman to climb up piggyback, one frozen course of the drug carefully triple-secured in a pouch on his utility belt, several vials of the vaccine tucked into various pockets. While Superman takes off and aims straight for Wayne Manor. 

Tim isn’t awake when Batman sprints into the room with no protective gear, Dr. Thompkins leaping up to shout at him furiously. He isn’t awake as the two of them work together in stony silence while Tim is tinted gray, fighting for every breath and heartbeat even with the ventilator and all the assistance medication and care can offer. 

He isn’t awake when the first dose of the antibody drug is mixed with a bag of saline and starts to drip through one of the lumens on his PICC line, slowly spreading through his blood stream. He isn’t awake for the awe on everyone’s faces when his raging fever drops three degrees in half an hour, when he stabilizes more in one day than they’ve managed to get his body to do in over a week. 

* * *

Tim wakes up two days later, just barely, just enough to see Bruce’s head resting on his arms, balanced on the railing of the bed. Just enough to see there’s no mask. Just enough to blink, once, while Bruce smiles through tears, and just enough to feel a real, warm hand come to rest on his cheek, brush the tip of his ear. Tim heaves in one deeper breath and sighs quietly, through a ribcage and muscles and body that aches more deeply than anything, and realizes, _I can breathe and I’m not dead,_ realizes _Bruce is happy,_ realizes _it’s going to be okay. Batman said. And it is, it’s going to be okay. He did it._

For the first time in days, Tim closes his eyes and sleeps to _rest_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took so long, I had no idea what to actually write for a good long while. I'm having, like...extremely major trauma mode right now where I can feel 2% of emotions and that's it, and it's really hard to write like this. But your comments and everything helped a lot, and I love y'all, and I'm really glad you've been reading this story and enjoying it along with me! We're on the downhill cruise now, pals!
> 
> I hope you're all as safe as your situations allow you to be right now. You're doing the best you can, and I'm proud of you, and I hope you all are well in this crazy pandemic. Remember to hydrate and eat regularly and get as much sleep as you can so your immune system stays as healthy as possible! Do things that help you relax and enjoy life. Get out in nature if possible. Take any and all meds you need, ESPECIALLY right now, and if allergy season is kicking your butt, I hope the misery passes quickly this year! <3


	23. call it your 2.0, your rebirth, whatever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim's alive!!! Hallelujah! He's also terrible at letting people know when he's having a problem, and he's beary stupid, but it's okay. They all love him anyway, and they're gonna take care of him as much as he needs, regardless of how much he wants. Featuring sassy Tim, sassy leslie, teasing big bro Jason, Good Son Dick, and, as always, Batdad to the rescue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Elmo with flames in the background.gif]
> 
>  **Content Warning:** Medical issues ahead, again, but not in the same overwhelming way as last chapter. Brief mentions of a feeding tube and medical monitors. Mention of surgery but no descriptions. No needle mentions. 
> 
> Your comments and your messages on tumblr and everything have helped so much recently, you're all the sweetest and I hope you like the chapter!!!
> 
> Chapter title is from Level Up by Vienna Teng.

The first days are full of sleeping. The first days are _so_ full of love.

* * *

Every time Tim wakes up, there’s someone with him. It’s exclusively Bruce, for an indeterminate amount of time in the beginning. During the brief minutes Tim manages to stay awake, Bruce explains in tiny chunks that he exposed himself to Tim and is technically in quarantine as well, now, but they’re hoping the vaccine Bruce took before flying over will keep him from getting sick. 

Tim, to put it mildly, is outraged. 

But his traitorous body falls back asleep right as he manages to open his mouth just a bit, intent on telling Bruce off for taking that kind of risk. 

He wakes up hours and hours later, in soft nighttime lighting, with Bruce’s head pillowed on one arm and his eyes locked on Tim’s face, and he distantly feels Bruce’s other hand gently rubbing through the greasy hair behind his ear.

 _“Stupid,”_ Tim slurs, barely audible. 

Bruce snorts quietly. “Really.”

“Stupid,” Tim breathes, again, trying his hardest to frown with the right intensity. “Y’re...so dumb. Why.” 

Bruce lifts his head and stands up from the recliner someone dragged in. He leans over, one hand gripping each bedrail, bracketing the bed, and looks Tim right in the eyes.

“You were going to die,” he says, as if that explains away all the million and one objections Tim has to the whole situation Bruce got himself into. “I promised. I told you I would always come when you needed me. I meant it, Timmy. You’re my kid.”

Tim’s eyebrows pinch together faintly, and he struggles to keep looking up at Bruce. Struggles to parse the words with his brain strung out on exhaustion and drugs. 

“But…” he says faintly. “Br’ce...m’not...everyone needs…”

Bruce places one hand on Tim’s forehead, thumb brushing across one of his eyebrows once, twice. 

“The world was turning before Batman ever flew,” Bruce tells him, “and it will continue turning after whatever day I finally hang up the cowl, willlingly or unwillingly. But you are _not_ expendable, Tim. Not to me. The world can manage without Batman for a bit.” 

Tim blinks up at him, long and slow. Bruce smiles and lets go of the bedrails entirely to cup Tim’s face gently between his hands. “You need me,” he says, steady and sure. “So here I am, and I’m not leaving. I’ve got you.” 

Tim falls asleep seconds later, with damp eyes, one cheek tilted to press into Bruce’s calloused palm with what little strength Tim currently has. 

Bruce kisses him on the forehead for two full seconds. Then he settles back into the recliner with a sigh, taking up his post for the long haul. For as long as it takes. For as long as Tim needs him. 

While the world turns, and heals, and breathes, Bruce will be here.

* * *

“Hey,” Tim mumbles in a whisper, only half awake. His hand full of bruises from collapsed veins reaches out clumsily, and Bruce meets him halfway. This is Tim sleeping, now, really truly sleeping in a normal night cycle, and Bruce is so grateful he thinks he could cry. Tim’s managing to stay awake for twenty to thirty minutes at a time, at this point, and everyone’s been getting a turn with him through the glass—even Jason, who was immediately shuffled back upstairs to sleep off the last remnants of his flu. 

As Tim’s hand is gently caught and enveloped by Bruce’s warmer, much larger fingers, he lets out a noise that would be close to a giggle if his throat wasn’t so tender and hoarse from the repeated intubations in recent days. 

“Hey,” Tim starts again. “Gotta take Cass to Paris. Bruce. You gotta.”

“Oh?” Bruce whispers back, smiling at him. 

“Cafe,” Tim murmurs, his eyes dipping to half-mast. “Street--she’s…” and he trails off into something unintelligible.

“What was that last bit, sweetheart?” Bruce asks. 

But Tim’s out again, and his only answer is a faint snore. Leslie laughs quietly over by the counter, and she and Bruce exchange identical tired smiles before she finishes what she’s doing, swaps out a bag of feeding formula for Tim, and slips out to go take another very needed nap. 

Bruce nearly falls out of his own chair when Tim jerks awake less than an hour later, rasping out _“Street ballet dancing in Paris!”_ far more loudly than his inflamed throat can handle, and then instantly tears up with a choked gasp. 

“Oh, _baby,”_ Bruce says, and he’s got his arms around Tim, propping him up, as he hits the button to call for some help. 

Dick sprints into the outer area less than a minute later, looking frantic with his hair only half combed. He slams a hand down on the intercom switch, looking between Bruce and Tim, whose face is buried in the crook of Bruce’s elbow, his hands weakly wrapping around Bruce’s forearm in a white-knuckled grip. 

“His throat,” Bruce says, calmly. “Tim needs ice chips. Maybe a popsicle.” 

Dick deflates instantly. 

“Oh,” he says. “Okay. Aw, poor Timmy. Did you try talking too much?” 

Tim just keeps breathing shakily into Bruce’s atm, so Bruce shakes his head on Tim’s behalf. 

“Woke up shouting,” is all he says. 

“Ah.” Dick nods. “I’ll be right back. Hang on, baby bird. I got this.” 

He’s back in minutes, a tumblr of finely-ground ice shavings in one hand and a couple ice pops in the other. He quickly pulls on the protective gear and lets himself into the room, where Tim is now leaned back against the bed again, head slightly raised, one hand still squeezing Bruce’s hard every time he has to swallow. 

Dick hooks the rolling stool with his foot and tugs it over till it’s next to Bruce, then drops down onto it and scoots firmly into Tim’s line of sight. He pokes Tim with one gloved hand. 

“Hey Timmy,” he says softly. 

Tim opens his eyes and looks over, perking up a little at the sight of his oldest brother, PPE and all. 

_Dick,_ he mouths. 

“Hey bud,” Dick says. He lifts up the hand with the popsicles in it, and wiggles them around just out of Tim’s reach. “May I interest you in a freezie pop in these trying times?” 

Tim actually grins back. 

_Gimme,_ he signs sloppily, and reaches one too-thin arm out towards Dick. Dick grabs a spare medical scissors from the counter and cuts the top off of the green pop, then wraps it in a couple paper towels at the bottom and helps Tim get his fingers around it securely before he finally lets go. “Try not to drip on the oxygen mask, buddy,” he murmurs. “Maybe tug it around the side of your neck so it’s out of the way, just in case.” 

Then he holds the other one out to Bruce, who blinks at him, surprised. “You, too,” Dick insists. “I know your risk is low, but you still have to stay hydrated and take care of yourself.”

Bruce takes the freezie pop. 

“You just want to see me with a bright blue tongue,” he says, gently flicking Dick’s ear through the hood of the PPE. 

“Hey!” Dick protests. “Here I am, your loving eldest son, trying to look out for your wellbeing and health, and you have the audacity to sit there and accuse me of—you think I—I just want you to be safe, and you—!”

 _“Thank you,_ Dickie,” Bruce laughs, while he rolls his eyes. “I appreciate it. Point taken.”

“I also want to see you with a blue tongue,” Dick admits , grinning unrepentantly. 

“I promised Jason to get a picture, because Jason is counting down the hours at this point and if I didn’t promise him something as a distraction he was gonna sneak down here and steal Tim back to his own room, I’m pretty sure.”

Tim wheezes softly in the closest attempt at a laugh he can manage. 

Bruce’s eyes snap back over to him, taking in the droplet of green on the corner of his mouth, the deep circles under his eyes, the very faint purple tinge to his lips. 

“Take a break, Tim,” he commands, already reaching over to take the ice pop from Tim’s shaking hand and pass it over to Dick. “Oxygen mask back on for at least two minutes before you eat more .”

Tim doesn’t have the energy to argue. Dick gently slides the mask back around to the front and settles it over Tim’s nose and mouth, glancing over to check the oxygen settings, making sure everything is correct. Tim seems to deflate and loses what little energy he had scrounged up. He slumps further into the pillows that are piled under his head, his arms, everywhere that he has bruising—which is, yeah. Pretty much everywhere. 

“Hate this,” he breathes, almost inaudible as he tries to not strain his vocal chords and throat. “Want to be—” he pauses, takes a couple of breaths like Leslie told him to do when speaking, “—back to normal.”

Bruce holds on to one of Tim’s feet, bumping the covers up. “I know, Tim. I’m sorry. It’s going to take a while, but I promise that this worst part will be over within a week or two at most.”

Tim glares halfheartedly. “Dr. Thompkins…told me that too…’bout...the pain…” he whispers, while Dick is getting a patented Batman glare for attempting to stick Tim’s half-eaten ice pop in the medical freezer. 

Bruce looks away from Dick, who’s slowly closing the freezer door and slinking back over to the stool, and locks sharp eyes on Tim. 

“What do you mean?” He asks. 

Tim blinks at him, looking wrung out and defeated. “The...abominal pain…” he mumbles. “Said it wouldn’t...last. Didn’t, but—’s been back...since I woke up the...other day.”

“Is it all over? Sharp? Just in one spot?”

“Was all over...now mostly on the left.”

Bruce takes a deep breath. “Front or back? High or low?”

“Front? I guess?” Tim breathes. “High.” 

“Tim,” Bruce says, keeping his voice carefully level, but unable to hide its rising intensity. He’s pushing onto his feet, walking over to the counter to call Alfred on the direct wire phone there. “Why didn’t you tell us sooner that your abdomen hurts?”

Tim shoots him a _look_ , and it’s nice to know that nearly dying hasn’t erased his youngest child’s ability to sass him, at least. 

_“Everything_ hurts,” Tim says, in the loudest, dryest whispered tone he can manage. 

Bruce pauses for a moment to rub the tension gathering between his brows, and then reaches for the phone. 

“Do not move,” he orders, jabbing one finger at Tim, who’s just spent the past several seconds painstakingly levering himself upright and is in the middle of reaching for the ice pop in Dick’s hand, despite the fact that it hasn’t quite been two minutes. “Lie back down.”

“Which is it,” Tim complains, in a hoarse whisper, while Dick struggles not to laugh and encourage him. “Don’t move, or...lie back down? I can’t do both.” 

“You know what I mean,” Bruce scolds, and then turns to face the wall as he asks Alfred to please go wake up Leslie, yes, he knows it’s the middle of the night, he’ll take the brunt of her tired crankiness, he promises. 

Tim sighs, and settles back in for another exciting night in the quarantine ward, closing his eyes and trying to ignore the clashing sounds of the machines that have become his constant companions lately. 

“Sorry, baby bird,” Dick says, to his left. “Think we gotta hold off on the rest of the popsicle for now.”

“‘S ok,” Tim mumbles. “I get it. Just...can I have a couple...spoonfuls of ice chips?” He catches his breath, rests his voice, then adds, “Please?”

Dick must glance over at Bruce, because there’s a pause for a moment, and then Dick shifts around on the stool and it squeaks. 

“Yeah, Timmy,” Dick says. “I don’t think a few mouthfuls will hurt.” 

Tim, despite himself, dozes off again with the second spoonful still not quite melted on his tongue.

* * *

“Timothy Jackson _Pain In My Ass,”_ a voice says, command laced all through it, and Tim nearly jolts awake, saved only by a hand that’s preemptively planted itself on his chest. His chest and abdominal area are freezing, there’s something goopy spread across his skin, and just—what? 

“Wh’t,” he croaks. 

“I thought you understood,” Dr. Thompkins says, and she snaps one of her gloves on sharply while Tim watches through bleary eyes, “that you have only _just_ started recovering from Ebola, and your entire body is, hmm, _a train wreck,_ and that every single symptom matters _quite a lot,_ actually, and if something is wrong, you are to _tell me.”_

“I—”

“I helped Alfred and Bruce with your medical training,” Leslie carries on, and she reaches for what Tim absently recognizes as an ultrasound wand. “I helped plan the modules, I watched you in simulations, I’ve seen the results of your written tests. I know you know how serious abdominal symptoms can be, and how time-sensitive it is when there’s pain involved.”

“I didn’t—” Tim hisses and tears up when Dr. Thompkins presses the wand against the skin of his stomach, sliding it around to get the gel spread more evenly, then continues, “everything hurts, okay--I didn’t think it was--particularly--” and then he can’t help the combination gasp and cry that try to come out, and Dr. Thompkins is suddenly spouting a stream of soothing apologies but not letting up for another several seconds. 

She and Bruce both have their eyes trained on the screen, looking grim, and Tim doesn’t want to know, but he has to. Bruce keeps one hand on Tim’s chest, steady as a rock, but his other grips Tim’s free hand without an IV a little more tightly, and Tim knows he’s made a mistake. 

“Sorry,” he whispers through a blur of tears, right at the same moment that Dr. Thompkins exclaims, _“Shit!”_

She’s dropping the wand on the tray next to the ultrasound machine a second later, and carefully tugs off her third layer of latex gloves, dropping them in the trash. 

“What?” Tim hisses as loudly as he can manage, as he uses Bruce’s techniques to breathe through the sharp but slightly receding pain. 

“We’re lucky you had a hunch,” Dr. Thompkins says, looking at Bruce, whose jaw at this point is chiseled out of stone. “It could have gotten worse. It’s bad, but not as bad as major internal bleeding would have been down the road.”

 _“What?”_ Tim wheezes. 

“Call Alfred,” Dr. Thompkins orders Bruce. “And Dick. Tell them to finish the prep we started in room three for an OR setup, I want to be in there in an hour if possible. Still full precautions, his bloods aren’t fully clear of the virus yet.” Her double-gloved right hand lands on Tim’s forehead, and she locks eyes with him. 

“Tim,” she says, all hint of scolding and humor gone from her voice. “I know you’ve studied Ebola, kiddo, do you remember how it invades the body? Spleen and liver are used as a springboard?”

Tim nods. Swallows once. 

“Well,” she says, as Bruce is speaking into the phone, quickly, quietly, controlled like Batman always is in an emergency. “Your body has been through the wringer lately, okay? We had to put you on dialysis for a while, even, before you turned the corner. And for the most part, you’ve been making absolutely amazing progress, but your body still has a lot of damage to work through, and it appears that your poor old spleen is, well. Giving up the ghost.”

 _“What?”_ Tim gets out, strangled and sounding exactly as scared as he feels. 

“It’s okay,” Dr. Thompkins says. “Tim, honey, it’s going to be fine. This is not going to kill you. It’s just a little hiccup on the road to you getting well. Your spleen has been overloaded and enlarged, and I was hoping it would stay stable and heal somewhat, but it’s swollen more and sometime over the past day or two experienced a blood clot and what looks like the _very_ tiny beginnings of a rupture, which is a medical emergency, and kiddo, I’m sorry, that thing has got to come out.”

Bruce steps back over to join Leslie at the side of Tim’s bed. 

“But it’s _my_ _spleen,”_ Tim says, stupidly, while he feels hot tears sliding into the already-greasy hair at his temples, and it’s just _gross_ , and he _hurts_ , and he thought things were going to get better, and he doesn’t want this, why is _this_ happening now too?

“I know, baby,” Dr. Thompkins says, sympathetically, as one of her gloved hands skims over Tim’s hair a few times. “But it’s got to be done. I promise it’ll be as easy as falling asleep on your end. I’ll be quick as a lick, and then you’ll be back on the path to being healthy and running all over the manor causing trouble again before you know it.” 

“I don’t cause trouble,” Tim sniffs. He tries so, so hard to stomp down the rising panic, the terror of being purposefully put under again, he’s trying to shove away the memories of feeling like he’s drowning, like he’s dying, like--

“Well maybe it’s about damn time you start,” Dr. Thompkins says, and her eyes crinkle behind the mask and faceplate. “Your job is to get right on that once you wake up later today, understand?” 

_Later today. Later today._ He’ll wake up later today, not some undefined time in the future, not never. _Hours. This isn’t days_. He’s supposed to wake up later today, today today today, but what if he doesn’t?

Tim can’t hold in the sob any longer, and it comes out as a horrible squeak, his airway and vocal chords too strained to shape the sound properly. 

“Oh, Timmy, sweetheart,” Bruce is murmuring, and then he’s there, everywhere suddenly, all around Tim, and _oh, that’s right, this is a hug._

Tim is being hugged. He can’t remember...

Tim’s body shakes every couple seconds or so with the force of his hoarse little sobs, and Bruce holds him, so gently, every time the movement jars every single inch of pain throughout Tim’s insides, all the muscles suddenly jerking that are aching and weak, every bit of tissue that’s been attacked by the virus over the past days, weeks. 

It can’t be comfortable hunched almost flat over the bed like this, but Bruce doesn’t move, doesn’t complain. Tim is getting his shoulder wet while Bruce cups the back of his head in one huge, warm hand, and whispering over and over in Tim’s ear that it’s going to be okay and he’ll be there the whole time. 

Dr. Thompkins must do something with Tim’s lines, because after a minute or two there’s a calm starting to sweep over him that is definitely not any of Tim’s unused coping skills taking effect. Tim sighs, so faintly it’s inaudible. His tense muscles relax in fractions. After a couple of minutes Bruce gently settles Tim back down until his weight is resting fully on all of the pillows, and he puts one of his hands on Tim’s hand, and the other hand on Tim’s cheek, and doesn’t drop eye contact with Tim while Tim blinks up at him hazily. 

“I’m not leaving,” he promises again. “I’ll stay during the whole surgery. I won’t let anything go wrong. Do you trust me, Tim?” 

Tim swallows slowly. 

Bruce’s eyes deepen, somehow, and he adds, “Robin. Do you trust me?”

Tim blinks, one more time, and nods. 

Bruce lifts Tim’s less-bruised hand up to his lips and kisses it gently. “We’re going to put you to sleep in here, before we move you, so it doesn’t hurt,” he says. “I’m going to be right here while you go to sleep, and I’m going to be right here when you wake up.”

“Kay,” Tim breathes, and Bruce doesn’t let go. Not while he guides Tim through a quick meditation, not while everyone else in the house lines up along the glass to wave and smile and—in Cass’s case—do a quick little silly dance that makes him smile, not while Jason points aggressively to the bucket list they made, and not while Alfred, Leslie, and Bruce all get him ready to move to the other room. 

Bruce steps to the other side of the bed, then, to give Dr. Thompkins and Alfred room to work, so they can put Tim under and intubate him safely without Bruce knocking their elbows, but even then, he just gowns and masks up while not leaving Tim without one hand being held. 

Tim breathes in from the mask Alfred holds over his face, mouthing the numbers counting down from ten, and he keeps his eyes locked on Bruce’s calm, reassuring smile until he conks out like a light before he even reaches six. 

* * *

He wakes up in a hazy, soupy feeling, and _ohhhhh_ boy, Tim must be on some strong medications still. He’s so floaty and comfortable that for once in his life, he can honestly say he doesn’t feel worried about one single thing. 

Tim puts all his energy into turning his head to the left to see who’s sitting by his bed this time—kind of expecting bruce, very much _hoping_ Bruce—and to his surprise, he’s met with bushy white hair, a thick mustache, and very familiar glasses. And _no face mask._

“Hello, BatWatch,” Gordon says, quietly, and one corner of his mouth ticks up into an almost-smile. 

Tim grins back. 

“Is it all right if I hold your hand for a bit?” Gordon asks. Tim nods, and Gordon reaches over the railing to take Tim’s hand in his much larger, warmer one. It’s like being wrapped up in a heated blanket, but better, because Tim can feel callouses, scars, soft skin that’s human and real. 

He thinks he might never stop wanting to touch people again after this. That’s been the worst part. Forget the pain, the fear, all the discomfort and weakness and everything else—Tim’s number one worst thing about having Ebola has been how much he’s missed people. Not-in-hazmat-suits-and-PPE-people. 

“What,” Tim tries to say, but what comes out is only a painful, rasping choke. 

“Shhhhh,” Gordon tries to soothe. “Don’t try to speak, sorry, I should have warned you right off the bat. Just breathe.” 

Tim does. 

“You had to be intubated one more time,” Gordon explains. “Your poor windpipe is pretty inflamed. It’ll go down, and feel better soon, but you need to let the whole system rest for as long as you can manage. I’ll try to guess your questions and fill in what I can until someone else comes, all right?”

Tim nods. At least. He hopes he does. His eyes are already shut again, and he’s seeing metallic rainbows on his eyelids where the bright fluorescent lights are shining on him from the ceiling. 

“Okay,” Gordon says, and Tim puts all his effort into tuning in, staying awake. This is _important_. He wants to hear this. “I know you expected Bruce to be here. He wanted to be, believe me. He was here the first couple of times you woke up after surgery yesterday, although I don’t know if you remember either of those. But he passed out after standing up when they went to move you in here to your bedroom today, and Alfred put his foot down and insisted Bruce go sleep in a real bed for at least eight hours, and then he and Dick forced all the others to go outside for a hike so help him god, so for now, I’m it.” 

Tim makes a noise that he supposes, in some universe, would indeed pass for a snort. 

“I’m going to assume that was a noise of agreement with the decrees of our wonderful overlord Alfred, who as far as I can tell, is the only competent adult in this household of overworked maniacs,” Gordon says dryly. “He called me in once he and Dr. Thompkins got Bruce to bed, and Alfred had sedated Dr. Thompkins himself, because he needed someone familiar to stay with you while he sorts out...something. I was too afraid to ask what, but it sounded important.”

Tim’s amused enough now to blink his eyes back open, and he sees Gordon take his glasses off and start to rub him on a corner of his old cotton shirt while he continues on. 

“Babs and I are fine,” he assures Tim. “She hasn’t left the house since this whole mess started, and I only left twice when absolutely necessary, and I was with Superman both times. Don’t think you can get much safer than that. We’ve been worried as hell about you, though. It’s good to see you on the mend.” He slides his glasses back on and pins Tim with a look that must be taught at dad school somewhere. “Don’t you ever do that to this family again, Timothy Jackson Drake.”

Boy, he’s sure getting full-named a lot this week. It’s funny, he’s only ever seen that in TV shows and movies before. His parents weren’t really home enough to bother. 

_Sorry,_ Tim signs clumsily, hoping Gordon knows some basic signs. 

“Sorry is nice, but it doesn’t fix spilled milk,” Gordon sighs. “You scared everyone about as badly as I’ve ever seen. Make it up to them by letting them take care of you, huh? And it’ll help you learn to not be so self-reliant, maybe, if we’re lucky.”

Tim thinks he scowls. He tries his best. Gordon seems to get the point, at least, even if Tim’s face doesn’t cooperate quite as well as he hopes. 

“Don’t give me that, you hooligan,” he scolds. “You isolate and push yourself too hard and you know it. Let your family help, for once, without fighting them on it. Lord knows you don’t have the energy right now, anyway.”

The Commissioner perhaps has a point. Tim’s eyes closed at some point already. When did that happen?

“You get some more sleep, kid,” Gordon is saying, and is it more muffled now? Tim can’t quite tell. “You’ve got a lot of healing to do, and now that you’re out of quarantine, your siblings are all having fistfights over who gets to see you first. Take all the rest you can. You’re gonna need it.” 

Tim means to open his mouth and say something funny about quarreling squirrels and the cheese that geese are eating on the roof, something about how those apply to his passionate siblings, but he doesn’t think that ever happens, because the next thing he knows, he’s blinking his eyes open to sunlight and he hears—

[ _Your pulp is red, so beautiful_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aEi_4Cyx4Uw)

[ _Like a kidney in disguise_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aEi_4Cyx4Uw)

[ _If you can live without your spleen,_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aEi_4Cyx4Uw)

[ _Can your spleen live without you-ou-ou-ou?_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aEi_4Cyx4Uw)

_Oh my god._

Tim tries to force himself back to sleep on sheer instinct slamming his eyes shut as if that will make the song stop. But noooo. The volume goes even higher. 

“Morning, baby bird,” Jason says, way too cheerfully. “Happy Tuesday! It’s good to see you, you know, alive.”

“Jason,” Tim breathes, and he meant to be annoyed, but instead his eyes are welling up. Embarassingly fast, actually, and he’s looking up at Jason, who’s perched on his mattress, and Jason’s face kind of twists up for a second like it can’t decide whether to crack a stupid joke or cry, and then Jason burrows forward in the covers alongside Tim without disturbing any of the numerous lines and wires and somehow manages to do _both_. 

“I was scared, you little disaster dumbass,” Jason chokes out, while he and Tim both fuel each others crying fits. “Don’t ever do that again, oh my god, you’re not allowed to die. I’ll bring you back again just to kill you myself and then—and then undo that so that you can be alive for real.”

“You are so stupid,” Tim says hoarsely, barely above a congested whisper. “I love you, I missed you so much, I’m so glad you didn’t get it too.” 

“Shut _up,”_ Jason snaps, through more tears. “I would rather it have been me, not you. You’re already a twig on a good day, I think I could blow you over like a birthday candle now.”

“You don’t blow birthday candles over,” Tim points out reasonably. He wrinkles his nose when he realizes it’s running and probably gonna clog up the nasal cannula giving him oxygen, and that’s possibly a bad thing, but he’s too tired to really do anything about it.

“Not if you’re a coward,” says Jason, scrubbing his face with one sleeve. He smiles at Tim suddenly. 

“Hey,” he whispers. “I’ve been hearing a lot of things second-hand about you recently, and I want some answers straight from the source. Like, the whole suddenly losing an organ thing? Little bro, you have some...ex- _spleening_ to do.”

It takes half a second, and Tim is so surprised that he blinks twice and straight up stops crying for a moment. 

When he looks over, Jason is grinning at him like the Cheshire Cat.

“You are the worst,” Tim rasps, suddenly crying again twice as hard. “I missed you so much. Please don’t leave.”

Jason wraps one careful arm around him. 

“Is this okay?” he asks, nervousness in his tone. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“‘S fine,” Tim mumbles, pressing close against every inch of Jason he can access without moving too much. His vaguely throbbing upper abdomen is making him wary of trying anything too soon. 

“Okay,” says Jason, settling in. “Just so you know, I’ve spent the entire past day coming up with as many spleen-related jokes as possible. You’re going to be hearing these for weeks.”

“Do your worst,” Tim whispers, closing his eyes. “Don’t care. Just happy t’hear ‘m.” 

“Are you falling asleep again already?” Jason says, sounding half worried, half impressed. 

“Mmph,” Tim breathes. 

“Man,” Jason sighs. “You are wiped out. Let this be a lesson about not nearly-dying, huh? I’ll pull up Spotify later, I guess, when you’re more with it. I made a whole playlist for you, you’re gonna love it, it starts with _Die Young_ by Ke$ha and _A Near Death Experience_ by Hellogoodbye, and then just gets better from there.” Tim smiles faintly, barely there, and Jason grins. “Bruce nearly lost his marbles when he saw, but I refused to delete it.”

When he’s absolutely sure Tim is well and truly down for the count again, Jason takes a corner of one of the blankets and carefully wipes the tears off of Tim’s face and kisses his forehead. 

“I’ve got a real playlist, actually,” he says quietly, running fingers through Tim’s freshly-washed hair, courtesy of Alfred and Steph. “I mean. I made _that_ playlist, yeah, but I’ve got a serious one for you that I worked on the whole time you were sick. About being brothers and family and shit. Because I really fucking love you. But, um. Later, I guess. When you’re ready. I’m just really glad you’re gonna be okay, Tim.”

Then Jason wiggles around a bit till he’s as comfortable he can get at the edge of the mattress, settling in for the long haul. He’s asleep within minutes, breathing steady and even and nearly an exact mirror of Tim’s. 

Bruce finds them like that an hour or so later when he comes to check in on the boys, and allows himself a few moments to smile from the doorway before he goes about the task of extracting a very sleepy Jason to carry him to his own bed for a proper nap. 

“G’way,” Jason grumbles, while Bruce disentangles him from Tim’s clinging hands. 

“Come on Jaybird,” Bruce murmurs, as he loops one of Jason’s arms around his neck and gets ready to heave. “You and Tim both need some rest.”

“‘M’not sick anymore,” Jason argues, his eyes not even opening. “Can’t make me.”

“I don’t need to,” Bruce says, patiently. “Your body is taking care of it. You got a bad flu, buddy, you know they always hit you harder than a lot of people.”

“Fuck malnutrition,” Jason slurs, while Bruce carries him to the hallway, 

“Language,” Bruce chides gently. 

“Shhhhh,” Jason whispers back. “‘M sleepin.”

Bruce snorts. “Sure, small one. That’s right. Time for all little Jasons to take a nap.”

“So mean,” Jason mumbles near-incoherently as Bruce gently drops him onto his bed, already turned back by someone. Probably Alfred. He knows the family inside and out, and predicts things so well Bruce would swear he was a psychic meta if he didn’t know better. 

“Have a nice nap, Jaybird,” Bruce whispers, kissing Jason on the forehead while his son buries himself under both enormous comforters. One foot, as usual, wiggles around until it kicks its way out under their bottom edges, and Jason finally sighs one last time in satisfaction. 

He’s all the way out before Bruce reaches the doorway.

Bruce has just settled down in the chair next to Tim after checking all the monitors and taking Tim’s temperature by hand, and he’s marveling at the miracle of Tim’s small living, breathing, still-alive small body in front of him when he realizes Jason’s phone is still on, screen shining where it’s half-buried under one of Tim’s blankets. 

“Bud, you’ve got to remember to turn the autosleep back on when you’re finished binging Crash Course videos,” he murmurs, and reaches out to pick up the phone before Tim shifts and sends it flying in his sleep. 

He’s about to turn it off when he catches sight of the reddit post on the screen, and he recognizes the username as Jason’s, which Jason thinks Bruce doesn’t know about but of course Bruce does, he upvotes every single post Jason makes, and what can he say. Curiosity is Bruce’s middle name. He starts to skim—

_Hey so my brother lost his spleen the other day and im gonna see him today so im gonna need an absolutely killer spleen joke to heal him emotionally (and possibly physically). I tried googling it but there is a truly disappointing lack of spleen related humor on the internet apparently and I—_

Bruce doesn’t make it to the third sentence before he has to drop the phone on the chair and go hide in Tim’s walk-in closet to shake with silent laughter for a few minutes, where he’s absolutely positive none of his children will see. 

_Kids,_ he thinks, walking back out once he’s regained control, and calmly sitting down in his designated seat. _Oh, god. My kids. Where would I be without them, now? I hope I never have to find out._ He sets Jason’s phone on Tim’s new rolling tray, screen off and facedown, with a smile. Then he reaches out and takes Tim’s hand in his again, just like the last time he’d sat with Tim, just like every time he’s been with Tim this week almost.

 _I almost lost you,_ Bruce thinks. _I almost lost you this week, and last week. And I almost lost you last year. And I almost lost you probably thousands of times before any of us knew you existed, because no one was looking out for you back then. No one had your back._

Bruce kisses Tim’s hand for a minute, then keeps it clasped in both hands by his face while he leans his elbows on the bed, watching Tim’s peaceful sleeping face and rubbing his thumb gently across Tim’s knuckles while he waits as long as necessary for his son to wake up. 

“This life has been so hard for you, sweetheart,” he whispers, hoping Tim can hear him somewhere deep down. “I wish I could have made all this easier, all these years. And I wish I could take all the pain away that you’re not finished with yet, everything you’re going to have to go through in the coming months. But I promise you’re not alone anymore, Tim. I love you. We all love you. We’ve got your back for good, no matter what you do and where you go. It’s going to be okay.” 

He kisses Tim’s hand one more time before setting it back down on the blankets and leaning back in his chair. _Bruce or Batman, whoever you need,_ he thinks, _I’ve got you, all the way to the end of the line. And we’ll all keep proving that to you as many times as you need. As long as it takes. You’ve got us, you’ve got a family, and we’re so, so lucky, because we get to have you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY SCIENCE CHECK: losing a spleen is NOT as far as I can tell a known complication of severe Ebola, so this is the one singular time that I'm taking author liberty and just doing it because I WANT to because it's TIM and he's not running off on a suicide mission in this universe and I still like the Tim's missing spleen trope too much to not use it. Technically if you stress a body enough, anything is possible, and while most of the very few reports on Ebola survivors only really talk about severe kidney issues, I figured I can make a good enough case for rare spleen complications that I gave myself a pass lol. 
> 
> I want you to know I have loved What Does the Spleen Do? ever since it was released and I'm absolutely delighted to have an excuse to share it with all of you. Please enjoy, and check out the many other songs several med school classes have made—a couple of my other favorites are It's Not A Zebra and The Gunner Song. 
> 
> I'm still working for doctors and dealing with very high risk family who's getting antsy so lord knows when I'll update next, but I hope you liked this chapter and I hope you're all safe and warm as you can be right now and that your stress is low and happiness is high! Remember to drink water or your fave drink, eat something even if it's small, take any meds you need, and get however much sleep you can manage! I care about you and I'm rooting for you and I promise you this is going to be okay in the end! <3 Please let me know if there's anything I can do to help any of you, okay, I mean it.


	24. i got me a future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim keeps healing. Some things happen. THE RETURN OF NOVA! Plus a bonus appearance from Uncle Clark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO I HOPE YOU'RE ALL OKAY thank you SO MUCH for your comments they're getting me through these Trying Times <3333
> 
>  **Content Warning:** Mention of some medical devices (PICC line, oxygen, feeding tube, etc.) but nothing invasive. Syringe is mentioned, but not a needle. Death is addressed. If you've watched someone die, on hospice or otherwise, and are sensitive about that, maybe be careful. 
> 
> Chapter title is from "Get Better" by Frank Turner

As Tim is able to stay awake for longer and longer stretches of time, they start carefully feeding him information around mouthfuls of broth and Alfred’s simplest smoothies. 

His mother is alive, for now, though she’s unconscious most of each day, and no, he doesn’t get details on that any more than he does about Gotham. The family is fine. Everyone’s doing better now that he’s out of the worst part of the woods, even if the virus did probably shave a few years off of their lives from sheer stress. Jason is over the flu, aside from some lingering stamina issues that Alfred is determined to fix with a kitchen and some willpower and a nap schedule Jason’s forced to stick to Or Else.

Steph’s healed up enough finally to romp (carefully) around the manor with the others, and has apparently decided while Tim was out of commission that she is now officially in cahoots with Cass. According to Dick, they’re almost always together at this point. And also almost always scheming. Bruce possibly regrets a lot of his life choices.

Tim manages a real, hoarse-around-the-edges laugh at that. 

Dr. Thompkins is still living at the manor, since she obviously needs to keep a close eye on Tim, but she comes back from spending much of each day over in Gotham City proper and tells Tim the main news while she swaps out bags and checks his vitals. She follows Bruce’s rule about no details, but Tim hears enough. The drugs aren’t magic, but they’ve saved a lot of people. Vaccines are being given out as fast as they can prep them, and by the end of the next week, most of the state of New Jersey will have been vaccinated as a precaution. 

“Hang on,” Tim interrupts, then, shifting around where he’s propped up at an angle until he can see Dr. Thompkins better. “Wait. I thought vaccines have to go through testing. Don’t we need to check?”

Dr. Thompkins finishes a settings tweak on his IV pump and snaps the cover shut again. “If we had developed it, yes. But this virus was modified, as we all suspected. And they didn’t release it before having safeguards to protect all their own people, which we also suspected.”

“That’s still not enough to make it worth giving people an unknown vaccine.”

“Unfortunately,” Leslie bites out, “The group responsible for both the virus and its countermeasures were extremely unethical--no surprise there. And kept very detailed records of the many, many prisoners and other people they tested every single one of their virus trials and drug trials on.”

“Oh,” Tim says quietly. 

“Between that, and the government and Justice League both getting their best people started immediately analyzing all the compounds, and the really desperate need...they approved the vaccine and drug quickly. Some in-country labs are trying to start producing more of the vaccine as we speak, because antibody drugs take--”

“So long to develop and produce, yeah,” Tim finishes for her. “And prevention is a much more reliable strategy than treatment and containment.”

“Exactly,” Dr. Thompkins agrees.

“But who was it?” Tim prods. “Who was actually behind--”

“Forbidden fruit,” she says, flicking his ear. “Don’t pull an Adam and Eve. I’m not falling for it.”

“Worth a try,” Tim grumbles.

“Take a nap, kid,” Leslie says, as she tugs her gloves off and drops them in a bin. 

“Everyone keeps telling me to take naps,” Tim says, scowling, but he literally yawns at the end of his sentence, which ruins the effect. 

Dr. Thompkins snorts. “‘Cause you need them,” she says. “Sleep, buckaroo. The questions will still be here when you wake up. You can harass somebody else about them then, maybe you’ll have better luck with one of your siblings.”

And then she’s out the door with a wave and a promise to send Stephanie right up, probably with Tim’s Switch in tow. 

Tim tries to stay awake long enough for Steph to walk him through making a new character in Stardew Valley, he really does, but somewhere between finding his grandpa’s letter and actually making it to his new home, Tim conks out, and it’s only Steph’s quick reflexes that keep the Switch from slipping through the gap between the side rail and the mattress and cracking on the floor.

“You are _impossible,”_ she sighs, staring at Tim, absolutely dead to the world again. As usual. “You’ve got to get better fast, or my mom’s gonna be out of rehab long before you ever actually play a stupid game. You still owe me Smash Brothers matches. And your family is literally lost without you around to fill your spot in the conversations and shenanigans. Bruce makes you a mug of coffee every morning, did you know that?”

Steph shakes her head and slumps back in her chair, flicking the Switch back on. “It’s okay, dude. We’ll wait. Just hurry up a little bit, okay? Cass and I need you for shenanigans. Top-secret. You’ll love it.”

Tim’s only answer is a very, very quiet snore.

* * *

Tim is woken up by Bruce gently brushing his hair off his forehead in the middle of the night, and opens his eyes to find his foster father perched on the edge of his bed, smiling but with pinched brows. 

“Whuh?” Tim mumbles, trying to blink himself more alert.

“Tim,” Bruce says. “Sweetheart. It’s time.”

Tim frowns, trying to sluggishly figure out _time for what,_ thinking back across the day and trying to remember what he was supposed to do tonight, apparently. His lips part to ask Bruce, and then it hits him. 

“Oh,” he says. Bruce’s hand stops to rest along one side of his face, steady as a rock. “It’s--oh.”

* * *

In the end, Dr. Thompkins and Bruce call Superman to carry Tim over to the Drake’s, since it’s the fastest mode of transportation they have, and while they could drive him over, it wouldn’t be nearly as pleasant a ride for Tim. They tell Jack Drake that Superman and Bruce have some history (which is true, the magazines have even caught onto it after the fourth time Bruce had to be rescued by the nation’s favorite boy in blue), and that Superman has been following Tim’s progress with interest, since he and Bruce Wayne were working together so often to try to help Gotham, and that Superman is happy to help tonight. As a favor. 

Tim thinks the whole thing sounds a little far fetched, but he’s also definitely not a fan of having to ride in a car at the moment, so. He’ll just have to hope it all really does work out.

“Jack says there are several spare oxygen canisters over there already,” Bruce is telling Dr. Thompkins. “So we don’t need to bring one, we’ll just disconnect his cannula and then attach it to one of those. He’ll be okay for a couple minutes without it, right?”

“Absolutely,” Dr. Thompkins says. Tim’s only half paying attention, his mind split between trying desperately to calm down and trying desperately to speed up. It’s like part of him wants to check out of life for a bit, and part of him is way, way more present than necessary, and it’s taking all of the small amount of energy he has to just keep his breathing steady and not shake out of his skin with adrenaline. 

But even he notices the way Bruce’s shoulders relax ever-so-slightly at Leslie’s answer. 

Dr. Thompkins is disconnecting Tim from everything that’s not strictly necessary, methodically clipping lines and twisting caps on ends, and Tim honestly really likes the sound that the EKG leads make when she snaps each one off of its little pad. He takes a second to be sad that there aren’t more while she quickly wraps up the wires and tucks them over the top of the monitor. 

“You get all this back on the second you get back here, mister,” she tells him, as she takes the two IV bags he’s still connected to off the pole. “Don’t even think about any bargaining or escape attempts.”

“I won’t,” Tim promises. He’s surprised his voice doesn’t shake. “‘M too tired, anyway.”

“Arms up,” Leslie orders. “I want you holding the bags on the flight over, we don’t needthem falling in mid-flight and your PICC line getting yanked.”

“Uh, yeah, no, definitely,” Tim says, and he hugs the saline and antibiotics a little more tightly. 

Bruce sends him as reassuring a smile as he can in this kind of moment, and takes a few seconds to touch Tim’s hair, his cheek, hold his hand. 

“Clark will be here in a minute,” he says. “And we’ll be just a couple minutes behind once you make it to your parents’ house, okay? The nurse is distracted for a bit. Your dad will let you in through the hallway window.”

“Okay,” says Tim. 

“This must be really overwhelming, and I’m so sorry that this is happening. We’re all with you.”

“Okay.”

“I love you.” 

Tim swallows. 

“Okay,” he says. “I love you too.” 

“Bruce, we have to go,” Dr. Thompkins says, slinging a bag over her shoulder. “We’ve got a three minute margin of safety before the nurse will notice that we didn’t show up at the same time as Tim. Let’s skedaddle.”

Bruce presses a kiss to Tim’s forehead and stands, while Alfred steps into the room. 

“We’ll see you in a few minutes,” Bruce promises, walking towards the door. “You’re not alone, buddy. We’ll be right there.”

Tim nods. Swallows. 

Alfred takes Bruce’s former spot next to Tim’s bed, and lays one hand gently over Tim’s, where he clutches the plastic IV bags. 

“Hello, my boy,” Alfred says quietly. “It’s good that you’re getting this chance to say goodbye, although I wish none of this was necessary at all. You’re a brave young soul, Master Tim. This year has not been easy for you.”

Tim looks at Alfred, and sees all the years he normally carries lightly. This is not the first time Alfred has walked a child through losing a parent. Tim kind of doubts, somehow, that it will be the last. 

“I don’t feel very brave,” Tim says, quietly. 

Alfred squeezes his hand once, then stands to open the window as a gentle tap comes from outside. 

“No one does,” Alfred tells him. “Not even the very bravest of us all. But you still are brave, regardless. Courage, dear one. You are not alone.”

“Hello,” Clark says, full of his usual cheer. “Heard someone needs a ride from the Superman Express?”

Tim surprises himself with a grin. “Hi, Uncle Clark.” 

“Hey, Tim. I can’t tell you how good it is to see you alive and awake with my own two eyes finally.”

“You say that as if you haven’t hovered out of sight at least once and used your x-ray vision to check on me,” Tim accuses. 

Clark laughs. 

“Fair,” he says. “I did do that. More than a few times. But it’s still not the same. You ready to go?”

The smile slides off Tim’s face. 

“Yeah,” he says. “It’ll be nice to get real air for a minute.”

Clark smiles while he slides his arms under Tim, as gently as possible, aided by Alfred. Between the two of them, they manage to get Tim situated without aggravating his splenectomy wound much.

“I’ll bet,” Clark says. “I’ve gotcha. Just sit back, relax, and let me do all the work, okay? Kent express, ready for departure.”

Tim gives him a half-grin. 

“Flight is a go,” he says. 

“Roger that,” Clark says, and then they’re stepping up onto the window seat and flying into the night so gently Tim hadn’t even realized when they’d started to float. 

* * *

The night passes with agonizing slowness, even as each second flies past too quickly. Each one might be the last, every one might be the last, and is it now? 

_Is it now,_ Tim thinks, a hundred times, every moment Janet’s breath changes just a little, every moment her heart rate dips further, every single time anything changes at all. 

He’s on the extra-wide hospital bed next to her, settled in his own spot with his hand on her arm and nothing else touching. His father is stretched out on Janet’s opposite side, eyes only for his wife. Tim can’t even begin to decipher the expression on Jack’s face right now.

Every now and then Jack murmurs something so quietly Tim can’t hear without straining, and he doesn’t bother to try. 

Bruce is perched in what tim knows is one of the least comfortable chairs on the whole floor, but he hasn’t gotten up once ever since he and Dr. Thompkins got Tim set up with an oxygen tank, his bags hanging from a spare hook on Janet’s pole, and a little pulse ox monitor on his finger. Just in case. 

It’s like Bruce is in silent solidarity with Tim, who’s getting more and more uncomfortable with every minute that passes now. But he doesn’t move. He doesn’t want to bother his parents. Not right now. He can handle a little discomfort, in the grand scheme of things. He can be sore and have his incision throbbing and put up with his muscles and joints complaining for a few hours. He gets to go back to his bed full of pillows after this, and Janet--

He’s here for her. Not--a little bit of pain doesn’t matter. Not during this. 

So Tim lies there, hardly daring to breathe to the point that sometimes Bruce gets a ping from Dr. Thompkins over at the manor and has to quietly tell Tim to take deeper breaths, to get some more air. He hardly breathes, hardly twitches, locked in on every breath that rattles in his mom’s throat, and man. He’d read about it before, the “death rattle”, but he didn’t realize what an accurate description it was. He’s faintly interested. Mostly horrified. 

He never wants to hear it again.

But for now, he doesn’t have a choice. He has to be here. This is his mom. 

So Tim lies there. And he hardly breathes, and he doesn’t move, and his eyes are dry from how long he stares at Janet and fights sleep, and his ears can’t help catching every noise the oxygen makes, Janet makes, Jack makes, the morphine pump makes. He can’t help feeling every ache his body throws at him. And he lies there and he listens and he pushes down the horror and the fear and the confusion until there’s nothing left but silent, constant, waiting dread, and _is this it, is this it, is this time the one that’s really it._

And it’s not, until the one time that it is. 

In the middle of a rattle there’s a hitch, and Tim freezes. Jack’s head lifts up slightly from the pillow where he’s been lying next to Janet. 

Janet’s breathing resumes, but it sounds different, and it stutters, once. Twice. Starts up again, and oh. 

This is it, Tim realizes. 

He can’t move. He’s not sure if he’s breathing. His hand is frozen where his fingers wrap around his mom’s arm, and he can see the muscles in Janet’s far-too-thin neck straining, hear the sounds of her trying to breathe--and Jack’s head is on her chest, Tim can see tears on his dad’s cheeks, he doesn’t think he’s ever seen him cry--

“Janet,” Jack says, in a broken voice that rattles Tim more than any yell ever did. “Oh, god. Jan. I love you so much, I love you, oh my god. Jan.”

Tim can’t hear his mom breathe. Tim can’t hear himself breathe. 

He’s not sure he’s a person, honestly. He feels like ice. 

“Tim,” someone says, low and quiet. 

Tim’s electrified and frozen. He wants to be anywhere but here, in this room, but he can’t tear his eyes away, can’t stop straining to hear. He wants to leave and he can’t believe this is actually it, after all this time. He doesn’t want what that means, but part of him is already reaching for the relief, reaching for the _god, finally, I don’t have to wonder, finally we don’t have to hear any more, finally the whole thing is done_ \--and that’s his mom. _His mom his mom his mom,_ it’s over, and he’s relieved? But no, he’s tangled--he’s frozen, and he’s horrified she’s gone, but he wants to go home--but he is home, and his dad is there, and his dad is crying, Tim needs to say something--

“Tim,” someone is saying again, and there are hands on his face now, gently turning him, and he’s looking, drifting, looking, and oh. Bruce. 

Always, always Bruce.

“B,” he manages. 

“Breathe,” says Batman.

Tim breathes. 

“Jack,” Bruce says, as gently as he can while still not giving an inch. “I’m taking Tim home. He needs to rest.”

“Yes,” Jack says quietly. He hovers just over Janet, propped up on one elbow. His hand is stroking the fuzzy short hair that’s just long enough to start brushing the tip of her ear, over and over and over, and his eyes don’t leave her face while the nurse silently closes Janet’s eyes the rest of the way. 

Tim hadn’t realized they were cracked open ever so slightly. He wonders if she could see anything. If there was any part of her left enough to be aware, at the end. Some people can hear or be aware in comas. He should have said something. He should have…

“I’m so sorry, Jack,” Bruce says, gravely. “I can’t imagine your loss. Please let us know if you need anything at all.”

“Yes,” Jack says again. “Thank you, Mr. Wayne. Tim--” he looks up for a second, locking eyes with Tim for the first time in a long while. Then he shakes his head, closing his mouth. He looks haunted, Tim thinks. “Be well, son,” Jack gets out, finally, and he’s already looking back at Janet, at his wife, at half of his heart, and Tim just--

Tim just wants to go home. 

Bruce is way ahead of him. He leaves the empty saline and antibiotics bags on Janet’s IV pole, clipping off the lines going of Tim’s PICC and disconnecting them. He’s got the oxygen turned off, and he leans over to catch Tim’s eyes fully. 

“I’m going to pick you up,” he says, slowly, clearly. “It’s going to hurt some. I’m sorry, buddy. I’ll be as gentle as I can, I promise.”

Tim blinks. 

Bruce’s arms are sliding slowly under his shoulders and knees, and Bruce angles so that he can keep Tim’s abdomen as flat as possible, but it still hurts, he was right--Tim’s jolted more alert in half a second by the twisting sensation, grits his teeth while Bruce pulls him up from the bed. But then he’s settled against Bruce’s broad ribcage, held as steadily as possible, and within seconds he’s turning to electrified ice again. 

They’re stepping out of the building by the time Tim checks back in much, the whole walk nothing more than a blurry memory of small jolts of discomfort and Bruce’s voice constantly keeping up a low monologue. He’s being gently lowered into the backseat of one of Bruce’s SUV’s, and Dick’s in the front seat, silent and with big, sympathetic eyes. 

Leslie is already waiting with a capped syringe, and Bruce nestles Tim’s head in her lap. 

“Hey, Kiddo,” Leslie says, placing one hand on Tim’s forehead for a moment. Bruce straightens Tim’s legs out and then shuts the door, climbing into the passenger seat. 

_Hi,_ Tim means to say, but words aren’t happening right now. _Sorry, Tim machine broke, try again later. Maybe in 5-7 business days._

If Tim was more present, he thinks he might laugh at that. 

“I’ve got your next dose of painkillers,” says Dr. Thompkins, sounding a little concerned. That’s bad. Tim has to fix that. “Mind if I give them to you? You’re about an hour overdue. Must be feeling a little rough.”

Tim doesn’t say a word. He glances over to the front, to Dick’s side profile, to Bruce’s hand holding the phone to his ear. 

“I’m just going to put it in your line really quick,” Dr. Thompkins says, while she twists the syringe into place. “Hang on for just a minute, and it’ll feel better.”

Tim doesn’t care. He’s not really feeling too uncomfortable anymore. But Dr. Thompkins still makes Dick wait a couple minutes before giving him the go-ahead to pull away and turn onto the road leading back to Wayne Manor. 

Partway there, while nearly dozing, Tim feels a wave of something come over him, and he’s awake for a minute, he’s alert, he almost jolts up on instinct from Leslie’s lap. 

“No,” he says, distressed. Bruce twists around in his seat in half a second flat, eyes on Tim, searching, checking. 

“What, Tim?” Bruce is asking, voice tight. 

“The--no, I--” Tim scrambles for words. Words, words, why won’t they work, where are his words? He can’t explain. He just skips ahead, voice rough, but Bruce will get it--

“Tim?” Bruce is asking again, and Tim shakes his head with frustration. 

“Yitgadal,” he says. “V’yitkadash sh’mei raba,” and his voice is a little off, he doesn’t quite have the cadence he practiced for so long alone and then with Bruce, but Bruce hears it, he gets it, he understands. 

“B’alma di,” Bruce says, slowly, right alongside Tim. “Oh, buddy. The kaddish. Sweetheart, you don’t need to say it right now, you’re sick.”

“No,” Tim says, and his voice almost cracks, almost squeaks. He’s still riding the fine line between his childhood voice and the big drop of the teenage years. He’s a late bloomer, but Dick promises him it’ll happen faster than he expects. Says he was the same way. 

“Tim,” Bruce says, dead serious, and they’re pulling up to the manor now. “Listen. I’ll say it for you today, while you can’t. Don’t force yourself. I’ll say it. You have so many more days to say it if you want.”

“No,” Tim insists, while Leslie holds two fingers on a pulse point at his throat. “No! Not the first time. I have to.”

“Tim,” Bruce tries, but Tim has stopped listening. 

“B’alma di,” Tim rasps, backtracking. He stares up at the fabric of the SUV’s ceiling, almost oblivious to the others around him as they open doors, speak outside the vehicle with other voices, scrape rubber soles on asphalt. “V’ra chirutei, v’yamlich malchutei--”

“B’chayeichon uv’yomeichon,” a new voice interjects, close and loud and inflection wrong, and filled with much more fire than Bruce’s. Tim’s eyes snap down to find Jason, almost scowling, leaning in the open door above his head. 

“Yeah, I know it too, baby bird,” Jason says, eyebrows pinching together. “You practiced it so much I couldn’t help learning at least the first chunk. _You_ know it. Bruce knows it. I know it. You’re hurting yourself to get it said, and the two of us are right here, perfectly good stand-ins for now, offering to help. Take the hand, Timmers. You’re not there anymore. You aren’t allowed to try to do everything alone.” 

Tim stares at him. Against his will, he’s starting to get hazy. Partly from the pain meds, but mostly just...he’s exhausted. He wants to sleep. He’s been up for so long, watching and watching and watching, and he knows they want to help. But he has to stay awake, he has to do this his mom just died and this is what he’s been practicing for--

“Timmy,” Jason says, hands landing on either side of Tim’s head, upside-down and warm and Tim missed Jason _so much_. “Baby brother. Light of my life, whipped cream to my pumpkin spice latte, go the fuck to sleep.”

“Can’t,” Tim says, but it barely comes out as a word. His eyes are sagging to half-mast whether he wants them to or not. 

“Hey kids,” comes a new voice, just behind Jason. “I’m here to give one last ride before the Kent Express goes home to help carry some hay around instead of boys. Ready to go?” 

“No,” Tim says, at the same moment that Jason steps away with a firm “Yes.” 

“Upsie-daisy,” Clark murmurs as he lifts Tim easy as pie, like he’s picking up a baby, and Tim is both offended and too tired to care. 

“No,” he tries, one last time. His eyes are closed by the time they’re up the front stairs and inside, by the time Bruce’s hand--it’s Bruce’s hand, he can always tell now when it’s Bruce’s hand--brushes over his forehead and smooths his hair back as Clark hovers them up the stairs to Tim’s room, and he barely even feels it by the time he’s being deposited on the bed.

His bed, with the pillows, and the blankets, and he didn’t realize just how cold and sore he’d been lying there with his mom. Everything aches, distantly, and he lets out a very, very small sigh when he feels gentle hands already adjusting a leg, one elbow, sliding pillows right where they’ll help most, propping them right where they’ll give the most support. 

“We’re all here,” Jason says, sounding next to Tim’s ear and far down a hallway all at once. Tim hums. “Would you let go already? I know everything sucks, but you’re going to get through this, and we’re not leaving you alone, and you’re never going back there. Go to sleep, Timbit. We’ve all been where you are. We’ve got you.”

And it’s not like he really has a choice, his body is doing what he wants whether he likes it or not, but. _Jason_ is telling him to sleep. And he’s so much more comfortable now. And there’s warmth starting to get trapped in the blankets around his legs, and someone’s humming a vaguely familiar tune nearby, and he’s ready to not be a part of this godawful night anymore.

So Tim sleeps. 

* * *

Cass is there when Tim wakes up next. She doesn’t say a word. Neither does he. They just watch each other for a moment, and then Cass kisses his nose, and she signs _dog_ and _soon_ and _love_ and slips out of the room before he makes it through half of a sign in reply. 

Tim has a fever, that day, which leads to a very anxious Bruce. Tim would be amused at getting to see Bruce like this if he wasn’t feeling so lousy. As it is, the previous night feels like it set him back a bit. He’s sore. He aches. He’s hot, he’s sweaty, he’s shivering, he’s freezing, he’s just barely riding the edge of 101 degrees and Dr. Thompkins is checking on him every hour.

“Don’t you dare get worse,” she says, pointing at him with one gloved finger after she checks his temperature for the umpteenth time that day, Bruce hovering within eyeshot of the LED screen on the thermometer and letting out a sigh when it hadn’t gone up again. “You do not get to get an infection or virus after everything you’ve been through and undo our hard work. Setback, not hurdle. Got it?”

Tim nods. 

He sleeps. He lets them do what they need to do to him. He eats a little bit of the broth Alfred brings for him, and he doesn’t complain about how it feels like it doesn’t mix well with the formula he gets from the feeding tube, and he sleeps more. 

Tim recites the Mourner’s Kaddish once, with Bruce, and those are the only words he says all day. 

* * *

The fever _was_ just a temporary setback, much to everyone’s relief. 

Tim stubbornly keeps progressing on. Everything Dr. Thompkins, Bruce, or the physical therapist tell him to do, he does and then does at least one step more. 

He signs with Cass, lets Steph teach him how to play Stardew Valley while he only follows, like, half of the info she tries to give him about the NPCs, listens to Dick talk about the Titans and the circus, All Time Low album with Bruce, naps whenever he feels like it, and goes white as a sheet the first time they truly have him stand up on his feet. 

Tim doesn’t let out a single noise of pain while the back of the bed is raised to almost vertical, only hisses when the PT helps him swing his legs over the edge of the bed. Bruce tugs grippy socks over his bare feet with a smile, and the PT gets the gait belt around his waist. 

The thing is stupid, in Tim’s opinion. It can slide around. It isn’t comfortable. It doesn’t seem very stable at all. 

But apparently it’s what they have to use, so use it they do. 

Tim doesn’t make a single sound while the PT holding his lines and catheter bag helps him up onto his feet, just inches from the mattress. They lock together, forearm to wrist, and Tim takes one hesitant step, two, and he can’t believe how much muscle mass he’s lost, how hard it is to remember how to walk, and then suddenly everything is gray, and then gone, and his ears are nothing but ringing, and he can’t tell which way is up but he sure needs to lie down right now immediately. 

Tim blinks awake several seconds later in the armchair a half-step away. He must have been deposited there when he...passed out? Started to fall?

“He’s not ready,” Bruce says, sounding worried. 

“This happens sometimes,” the PT tries to reassure. “His blood volume is still low, and his body isn’t used to being upright. Give him some time.”

“We can’t keep losing days of movement,” Dr. Thompkins is saying, quietly. “His muscles--”

 _Help up,_ Tim signs, with snappy movements. He locks eyes with Bruce. 

“Tim--”

 _Again,_ Tim signs. _Up._

He has to sit back down two more times. On the third try, he makes it to his feet and stays there for ten seconds while the PT counts so slowly Tim wonders if a new villain has cropped up who can change the flow of time. 

He makes it the three steps to the bed and is eased down, eyes closed, shaking, clammy, and panting. But he did it. 

“Good job, Tim,” the PT says brightly. “That was hard, but you pushed through! We’ll try again tomorrow, okay? Rest up.”

Not as hard as Robin training. Not as hard as the things he’d done to be safe as BatWatch. Tim could take it. 

That afternoon, Tim says the Mourner’s Kaddish. His father calls and says Janet’s funeral will be the following day, closed casket, in the Jewish cemetery. 

Tim can’t go. 

_The Torah reading_ , he scribbles furiously on a piece of paper, and shoves it towards Bruce. 

Bruce looks at him evenly. “You think you can do it?”

Tim stares. Nods. 

“Okay,” says Bruce. And that’s it. “Then we’ll make it happen. I’ll talk to Leslie.” 

When Dick is sitting with him later, and Tim is feeling like a caged animal, bored out of his mind, too restless to feel like moving, ready to snap someone’s head off but feeling bad about it because they only want to help, and he doesn’t really want to be alone, but he’s always being watched, Tim stops Dick in the middle of a sentence and points at the standing walker along the side wall of his room. 

“You want...to try it?” Dick asks, sounding wary. 

Tim nods. 

“I...I don’t know how to do that safely, buddy.” Dick must see Tim’s mood on his face, because he quickly raises a hand. “But. I’ll go ask Bruce. Okay? Hang on.”

Bruce comes in, and pauses at the foot of Tim’s bed, hands on the plastic footboard. He looks from Tim, to the walker, back to Tim. 

“You’re sure,” he says, flatly. 

Tim stares him down.

“You recite the Torah reading with me one more time, to make sure you still remember it right,” Bruce says, “and drink one cup of broth, and then I’ll help you walk. But we take the wheelchair to the funeral.”

Tim considers for a second, then nods. 

He sings the Torah. He drinks the broth, except not quite all of it, but Bruce lets it count. Bruce and Alfred help him up, spot him as he walks. Tim walks across his room and back, takes a break, and naps in the chair. In the evening, he wakes up sore and stiff, and points to the walker. 

He makes it out of his room and two doors down the hallway before he runs out of steam. But he makes it all the way back to the doorway of his room before his legs finally give out, and as he falls asleep while burrowing back under the covers, he feels a kiss on his forehead and hears Bruce whisper, _I’m so proud of you. Thank you for not giving up._

Tim sleeps, and he doesn’t dream.

* * *

He goes to the funeral. He takes four slow steps out of the wheelchair. He chants his portion of the Torah readings, interrupted halfway through by him needing to be helped back down to the chair. He recites the Mourner’s Kaddish, he says goodbye silently, and goes home.

Tim sleeps most of the rest of the day, but when he walks, he walks seven doors down and makes it all the way back to his bed. And then, after a nap, he does it again.

* * *

Tim is still shit at standing and walking without the walker. He needs more muscle. So they give him leg exercises, now that his brain and muscles have been woken up. He does them as many times a day as he remembers, plus the extra times that Jason remembers, too. 

Tim’s in the armchair by his window, free of half the lines and wires he’d had a week ago, his head tipped back and eyes closed. He’s enjoying the sunshine while doing leg excercises in the chair--up, hold, count, drop, rest. Repeat. 

He’s just reached the counting part when his door opens, but he’s half-meditating and doesn’t pay it much mind. It sounds like Bruce. 

He drops his feet back down, and--they hit something? Something furry? And wiggling?

Tim’s eyes snap open and he jerks forward, looking down, down, and there’s Nova, in a down stay, looking up at him and barely containing her wiggling excitement. Bruce is grinning up at him too, from where he crouches in front of Nova’s face, holding a treat to get her to behave under excruciating circumstances. 

Tim’s eyes are huge. He stares at Bruce. Feels Nova breathing under his toes, feels the slight shake from her tail wagging so hard. 

Tim speaks something other than the prayer for the first time in days.

“Can I--she’s allowed--?” he starts, and he hates that tears spring up in his eyes, but it’s his dog. He’s missed her so much. 

“Dr. Thompkins has declared you officially strong enough to handle dog cuddles and occasional bumps and scratches,” Bruce says, still smiling. “Since Nova’s trained as a service animal, and can use reliable restraint. We’ll take her out several times a day for exercise, but she can stay with you now the rest of the time.” 

Tim already patted his lap halfway through Bruce’s statement, and now he’s got dog legs on his thighs and his nose buried in the fur between Nova’s ears and he glances up suddenly to realize Jason and Steph have been filming this whole entire thing from the doorway. 

_“You,”_ he says, but he’s smiling, and they all know he can’t follow through on any threats at the moment. 

“You’ll thank us in a month,” Jason sing-songs as he and Steph wave before vanishing down the hallway. Cass slips in, Teacup in her arms. 

“Teacup’s so much bigger than I last saw,” Tim breathes. Cass nudges Nova down, over to Bruce for a treat. She drops Teacup into Tim’s lap, which the cat does not appreciate. 

“Yes,” she says. She looks proud. _Good love,_ she signs. _Good food._

“Definitely,” Tim agrees, getting one single pet in before Teacup shrinks away like a Slinky toy. Cass and Tim both laugh, and Cass picks Teacup back up and steps away. 

“Better?” Bruce asks, kneeling on the floor and nudging Nova back over to Tim’s waiting hands. 

Tim looks over at him while Nova’s damp nose bumps his hands, his knees, his wrists, and he’s scratching and rubbing every inch of her head and neck and back he can reach, and she’s wiggling, and he’s scratching, and things feel just a little more right in a world that still feels upside down. 

“Better,” he says. “Yeah.”

Bruce smiles. 

“I’m going on patrol tonight,” he tells Tim. “Just for about two hours. Enough people are going out again that crime is starting to pick up.” 

Tim hums. 

“Batman’s been off the streets for a good while,” he agrees. 

“Batman misses Robin,” Bruce says. “Very much.”

“Hm,” Tim says. “He’s probably gonna have to be patient for a while longer. Maybe he should have another Robin for a bit.”

“No,” says Bruce, and his tone is so quick, so serious, that Tim looks back up again from Nova and meets his eyes in surprise. 

“No,” Bruce says again. “Batman needs his Robin. He’ll wait as long as he needs to for Robin to be ready again.”

“Well,” Tim says, a little shakily. “I guess Robin is gonna...need to work hard to get back into fighting shape.”

“Robin,” says Bruce, “needs to take as long as he needs to make sure he’s ready. Head, heart, and body. Bruce needs Tim more.”

Tim doesn’t have a reply for that. Bruce doesn’t need one. 

“I love you, Tim,” he says. He kisses Tim’s forehead, rubs Nova’s ears, and then leaves. 

Tim goes to bed that night feeling more comfortable than he has in weeks, feeling safe, feeling more normal, and with about a hundred thoughts turning over and over in his mind. 

Batman needs Robin. Batman needs Robin. 

But Bruce needs Tim. 

And Tim needs…

What does Tim need? Tim’s not totally sure. But as he blinks awake in some early hour of the morning, and glances over to see Jason sprawled in the armchair snoring, and checks his phone to see the messages he’d missed in the family group chat that evening after he fell asleep--

A family group chat. Tim still can’t believe sometimes that he’s in an active family group chat. If two-years-ago-him had been told--

 _Anyway,_ he thinks firmly. Jason snoring. Group chat. Nova curled up with him in the bed. An PICC line that’s only used once or twice a day now, and a feeding tube that he’s been promised will be unnecessary as soon as he can eat enough calories on his own, which he’s working towards every day, and Dick who’s now switching to the GCPD so he can live at home again, and a sister who seems to have adopted another sister.

He’s got a lot of good. And he’s got Alfred, and he’s got a good home that he feels safe in, and he’s got Bruce--and there’s too much to even begin to say what he needs to say about Bruce. And he’s got a dead mom. And his dad has dropped off the radar again, and frankly, Tim is too tired to go messaging him right now. He doesn’t have the energy to chase Jack down. Tim’s trying to learn to be a living person again, thanks, and if Jack wants to know his only son is alive, he needs to message Tim first. 

But Tim’s got a family, and he’s alive, and he’s not sure what to do with all that exactly, but...he’s pretty sure he’s going to figure it out. Because he’s not alone. They’re right. He may be kind of a wreck at the moment, even if he’s better. And he may be grieving, _and_ confused, and Bruce is probably going to slam dunk him into more therapy with Dinah the second he’s strong enough for it. And he still doesn’t know how to imagine a future that’s much further than maybe a few months, maybe half a year down the road.

But everyone has promised that it’ll get better, and they’re not leaving him. And after everything that’s happened, and all the times Bruce has chased him down, and how many times the Waynes keep opening their arms to him over and over, and never giving up despite everything that happens, and pulling him into the family every single day?

Tim realizes that, hey, actually-- _I think I’m really starting to believe it now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea how I feel about this chapter, but I hope you all like it!!! The story might end next chapter OR one more after that, I just have to see how much there is still to say. We'll find out together lol 
> 
> DRINK, EAT, TAKE ANY MEDS YOU NEED, PRACTICE LOTS OF SELF CARE RN OKAY <333333 YOU'RE GOING TO BE JUST FINE.


	25. i'm a comeback kid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i'm flying, i'm trying, i refused to break, i keep high hopes, i won't let go (tim, probably)
> 
> THE LAST CHAPTER, PEOPLE, THIS IS NOT A DRILL.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am literally begging you to listen to "Comeback Kid" by New Politics when you get to the end of this to get the full experience, you'll get hyped and feel what Tim is aiming to get you to feel. Heck yeah!!! (coincidentally, that's also where the chapter title and summary are from.)
> 
> THANK YOU FOR COMING ON THIS RIDE WITH ME. I didn't ever expect the fic to get this long or complicated, and you've stuck it out the whole time, and I'm so grateful for all your support and excitement and kudos and comments, and I really hope that you like this chapter. If this story has been able to help you in any way, I'm so glad, and I'm so proud of all of you, and I want you to know that YOU all inspire me every day with your stories and courage and everything, and I'm just.  
> I appreciate you a lot. You're amazing. Keep on keeping on. 
> 
> **Content Warning:** Mentions of a feeding tube. I think that's it?

“You missed Rosh Hashanah,” Bruce says, scratching Ace under the chin. Tim is sprawled out across the couch with his head on Bruce’s lap, and they’ve been watching episodes of _Night Shift_ for the past three hours, ever since the got back in from Tim’s first walk outside in weeks. 

Tim wiggles his sock-foot toes against the arm of the couch and practices flexing his ankles up and down, pushing till his calves burn. Bruce doesn’t complain as Tim’s shoulders jab his thigh.

“Hm,” Tim replies. 

He knows, technically, that he missed the High Holidays while he was sick. It just...rankles, that’s the word. Jason had included Tim in his vocab study sessions for the last year, as something to keep them both busy, and that’s one of the words Tim has decided he likes. It _rankles_ that after everything that changed, once again, through no fault of his own, really, he missed another year of celebrating them with family. 

“And Yom Kippur,” Bruce adds. 

“Yeah,” Tim says. “I know.” 

“Hey,” Bruce says, a bit louder. He nudges Tim with his hip. “Hey. Look at me.”

Tim glances up and locks eyes with Bruce, upside-down and sideways, sort of, but it’s close enough. 

“I know how much you wanted to go and celebrate. At the synaogue and everything. With me.” Bruce puts his hand on Tim’s forehead, and Tim just barely manages to not make a little noise. No one needs to know how badly he wants to be touched all the time still. It’s been weeks, he’s _fine_. 

“Yeah, well,” Tim says. “Life.”

“Life,” Bruce agrees. “But the whole city was under quarantine, remember? _No_ one could go to synagogue, except the rabbis and cantors. Which means they livestreamed it.”

“Right.”

“Which _means_ I _recorded it,”_ Bruce finishes. 

Tim sits up and twists around to look at Bruce properly. 

“All of it?”

Bruce nods. “Every day. I wanted to attend with you, too. And I was a little busy at the time, so I didn’t watch while it was going on, I just downloaded them all on a hard drive. Would you like to celebrate with me here at the manor? I know it’s not the same, but--”

“No,” Tim interrupts. “It’s--that’s great, I didn’t think--normally they delete the recordings on the website in a couple weeks, so I just figured--” He takes a deep breath. “I’d love to,” he says, finally. “Watch the services. With you.”

Bruce smiles. “Are we going to do the whole thing?” he asks. “Dress in white? The candles, the challah, the apples?”

“The Tashlich?” Tim adds. 

“I don’t see why not. We can drive out to the stream by the park.”

“Awesome.”

“Tomorrow?” Bruce asks, his hand drifting through Tim’s loose, few-inch long curls at the crown of his head--Tim had begged Bruce to cut his hair three days after moving back upstairs and being sick of the feeling of hair on his neck--and Tim leans into the touch before he can help himself. But he tenses up, too.

Tim looks away, down and off to the side, and his eyes trace the patterns in the rug while he struggles to find words. 

“Tim?” Bruce prods gently, after several seconds of silence. 

Tim huffs out through his nose. His hands twist the bottom of his shirt, around and around one finger, shake it out, around another one again. 

“Can we…” he starts, and trails off. After a moment, he opens his mouth, hesitates, and tries again. “It’s all...everything’s a lot,” he admits, as much as part of his brain is screaming and on fire, shouting _you can’t admit weakness, you’re just complaining, you can handle it. You’re better than this._ Tim takes another breath, tells that part of himself _shove off, honesty is important, I don’t want to burn out again,_ and keeps going. He leans into the arm Bruce holds out silently, letting his foster father tug him against his shoulder where they’re touching but Tim doesn’t have to make eye contact if he doesn’t want. 

“It’s a lot,” Tim repeats, more firmly this time. “I do really want to celebrate the holidays with you, that’s just--awesome. But can we...maybe take a little more time?” He leans his head back along the top of Bruce’s arm and shifts a little, mindful of the tiny twinge under his splenectomy scar where some muscles are still tender. “I don’t know if I’m ready to celebrate new beginnings yet. Just--a little longer, not much, I promise?”

“Tim,” Bruce says. “We can wait a whole year if you need it. You don’t need to rush. The recordings aren’t going anywhere. You just tell me when you’re ready, whether that’s next week or months from now, and we’ll pull them out and bake some challah and make a weekend of it, all right?”

Tim can’t keep the wave of relief out of his voice entirely, but makes a valiant effort. _“I’ll_ make the challah,” Tim says, grinning. _“You_ don’t get within five feet of my batter.”

“Oh, that’s just mean,” Bruce says.

“Listen, I thought the others were exaggerating about how bad you are in the kitchen, I was on your side,” Tim says. “But you messed up a _tuna fish sandwich.”_

“I told you I wasn’t good at cooking!” 

“It comes out of a _can!”_

“I am a perfectly good detective,” Bruce says primly. “I can take a man down in eighteen different fighting styles off the top of my head. I changed Mrs. LaCroix’s tire the other day at Whole Foods. Just because I’m not the best at making sandwiches--”

“You set mac and cheese on fire!”

“That was one time.” 

“I make the challah,” Tim insists, firmly. “If you’re, uh, willing to wait till I can stand and work long enough to knead the dough for like, a million years.”

“Of course,” Bruce says, warmly. “But you do know we have a mixer, right?”

“It’s not the same!” Tim protests. “It’s about the _experience.”_

“Okay,” Bruce says, laughter in his voice even if he’s doing a good job of holding it in. “All right. I defer to your baking expertise. Mr. I-ate-kraft-cheese-and-mustard-sandwiches-for-a-year.”

Tim makes an outraged noise and dives for one of Bruce’s few ticklish spots while the man still has his guard down. He actually gets one single half-squawk from Bruce before he manages to twist away from Tim and launch a counterattack, still ever-careful of Tim’s not-quite-back-to-optimal body. 

Then Tim is squirming, laughing, absolutely shrieking, and between involuntary giggles he manages to shriek out _Jason, help,_ which gets Jason running into the room in under ten seconds flat. 

Tim _knew_ Jason had him bugged. One of these days he’s gonna figure out how, he swears. 

Jason comes in ready for a fight, but he stops dead in the doorway for two seconds to take in the scene--Bruce grinning, Tim nearly crying with laughter, the remote kicked to the floor and two cans of lemonade perilously close to flailing legs. And Tim’s foot connecting with the bottom of Bruce’s ribs, _wow, good shot,_ he thinks.

Jason joins in as a neutral party, attacking both and neither as his feelings shift, but he grins every time he and Bruce get Tim to shriek in something other than pain for once in the kid’s life. 

“Not--fair--” Tim gasps out, during one of the brief lulls, as he catches his breath. He’s tense as a live wire, eyeing both Bruce and Jason warily, knowing they’ll start up again at any moment. “‘S’posed to be on my side!”

“I’m Switzerland,” says Jason. 

“You’re a traitor,” Tim accuses, and then his next word morphs into a hysterical laugh as Jason jabs him right in the armpit. 

Stephanie and Cass have conspired against every single person in the house over the past several weeks (minus Alfred--no one schemes against Alfred). Now that Tim’s well enough to be mobile without assistance, and to be awake for most of every day, they’ve decided he’s fair game. 

“You,” Stephanie says, with far too much joy, “are getting a spa day.” 

“Oh, god,” Tim mumbles. He tries to twist away, but Cass has him in some kind of hold that he can’t get out of no matter how hard he squirms. Maybe if he was Dick. But he’s not. 

“Buck up,” Steph tells him. “It’s supposed to be enjoyable. You’ll like it.”

“Nice,” Cass agrees. 

“We’re not going to like, plaster you in makeup,” Steph promises, as they walk through the doorway to Cass’s room and head for the large en suite. “Unless you want that! I will happily do your makeup, okay, your eyes were _made_ for accent colors. A little eyeliner, some shadowing--”

“No makeup,” Tim says. 

“None?”

“None.”

“How about a face mask?”

“What kind?” Tim asks, wary. 

“Paper sheet style _or_ cucumber-scented cream, straight from the fridge, nice and cool,” Steph says. 

Tim considers. 

“Okay,” he says. “The cucumber stuff. It always smells fresh.”

Cass drops a kiss on the top of his head before setting him down on an armchair the girls must have pilfered from one of the lounges, and Tim grins. Anything for Cass, really. She could say jump, and he could have a broken ankle and he’d still say _how high._

He knows it’s stupid, but. It makes him feel warm when he does something and she approves. Like he’s doing something right. He just--likes making people he loves proud. And Cass is so honest, so unfailingly clear in her communication, it’s easier with her than anyone else to know where he stands. If she’s disappointed, it’s clear. If he does something that she deems “good-for-Tim’s-wellbeing”, she doesn’t hesitate to let him know. 

“What’s first?” Tim asks, resigned, as Cass starts fussing over making sure his feet are propped up well enough, and Steph’s hands flutter along the top of a line of bottles they’ve plopped onto the counter. 

“Warm washcloths,” Steph says. “Then a face mask, and then we’ll go from there.” She pauses for a moment, and looks at Tim straight on, with a real, large smile that crinkles the freckles around her eyes and makes her nose tip up, just a little at the very bottom.

Tim loves that smile. _Everyone_ loves that smile. They have a secret board in the unused East Wing kitchen tallying up how many times the family’s gotten Steph to smile properly since she moved in with them. Because they had thought she smiled for real--and her smiles weren’t fake, this is a family of detectives, they can tell--but it was several days before she pulled out one of the big ones for the first time.

(Dick’s currently in the lead, to no one’s surprise, but to the surprise of _everyone_ , Bruce is actually in second place. Go figure.)

“Try to relax, okay?” says Steph. “You’re going to like this. I promise.”

Tim, to his pleasant surprise, _does_ like it. He likes it a lot. He likes it even _better_ once Dick spots them, when he wanders in to ask if Cass has seen his headphones, and decides to join in. 

“It’s been months since Kori and I did a spa day,” he says happily, head leaned back on the armchair of Tim’s perch. Cass is painting his nails with the same single-minded focus she turns on the phonics flash cards she practices with Babs every week. She flicks his ear once when he wiggles a little too much. 

“Sorry,” he laughs. “You know I’m no good at staying still.”

“How many times do you mess up your nails,” Steph sighs. 

“Usually about three times,” Dick says, unashamed. “Wally and I just fix each other’s mess-ups so we don’t have to bother Kori. She puts up with enough of our shenanigans as it is.”

“Wally does his nails too?” Tim asks. 

“Oh, yeah,” Dick says, nodding. “It started as just a little joke one weekend when we were all hanging out after a mission, and Kori suggested it, but most of us liked the colors, and it was kind of...a bonding thing? And Wally and I liked it so much that we keep doing it a lot of the time. But I haven’t been able to much for the last few years, ever since I joined the force.”

“That’s dumb,” says Steph. “What’re painted nails going to hurt?”

Dick snorts. “Fragile male egos, and the status quo.”

“Did I hear fragile male egos?” Jason says, popping his head around the door. 

“Indeed,” says Tim. “Do you have one? Or are you man enough to join the nail painting party?”

“What, they got to you too?” Jason asks, already grinning. He steps into the bathroom and perches on the edge of Cass’s large bathtub, and holds out his hands for Tim to inspect. “Been there, done that, little bro. I was their test run.”

“Lemme see,” Tim demands, as he takes Jason’s hands in his. “Oh, snap. You got rainbow nails?”

“Might as well have fun,” Jason says, grinning. “Who’s gonna judge us here? It’s not like we’re going to the city for another couple weeks. 

“Except in costume,” Tim says, snorting. 

“I wear gloves.”

“Fair.” Tim gets a thoughtful look on his face. “Hang on. Steph?”

“Mm?”

“Didn’t you say you had little rhinestones you could put on my nails?”

“Yeah.”

Jason’s eyes light up. “I want rhinestones,” he says, immediately. “Why didn’t I get any rhinestones.”

“Maybe ‘cause I thought you’d use them all, you absolute magpie,” Steph says, but she grins and tosses him the plastic package anyway. “If you want, I can do little white clouds on your thumbs and put a rhinestone star on each, or something?” She steps away from Tim, then, and drops the bottle of deep blue nail polish on the lid of the toilet with the other shades. “Tim, don’t you dare mess up those nails before they’re dry. You get your phone back in ten minutes, no sooner.”

“Do it,” Jason says, eagerly. 

“How am I gonna mess my nails up with my phone screen?” Tim complains. 

“You’d be surprised,” Dick says. 

Steph just points at him in agreement, trying to chew around the entire Reese’s jumbo cup she just stuffed in her mouth.

“Fine,” Tim grumbles. 

“Rhinestones,” Jason orders, as Cass ducks around the armchair to sit next to him and burrow in under one of his arms for a hug. “Aw, Cassie. Love you too.”

“What is going on in here?” 

They all look up to see Bruce, leaning in around the edge of the door frame. 

The kids glance at each other, with the telepathy that exists only between we’re-all-in-this-together siblings, look back over at Bruce, and chorus, “Spa day!”

Bruce blinks. 

“I see,” he says. “Who’s in charge of makeup?”

Dick raises a hand. “That would be me and Steph.”

“Hm,” Bruce says, folding his arms. “You any better at cat eyes than you were a few years ago?”

Dick grimaces. 

“Budge over,” Bruce orders. “It’s tutorial time. Again.”

“Hang on,” Steph says. “Hang on. What.”

“What,” Tim agrees. 

“Oho,” Jason says, gleefully. “You kids have never seen makup artist Bruce outside of injury cover-ups, have you? We haven’t done any undercover work for a couple years. Oh, man, this is awesome.”

“What,” Tim repeats.

“I’m sure you all saw the tabloids about my ill-fated stint as a punk-rock teenage rebel,” Bruce says, mildly, while he plucks Cass’s unused makeup box from under the sink. “Tim. You know my music taste.”

“There’s a difference between liking music and dressing a part!” Tim gets out. Cass narrowly redirects his flailing hand from whacking against the upholstery. Tim throws her a grateful _thanks,_ careful not to bump his nails against his chin, since she just saved him from the wrath of both Stephanie and Alfred. 

“Well,” says Bruce. “I did both. Who’s first?”

“Me,” Jason and Dick say, at the same time, and. What. 

“Tim,” Steph says. 

Tim scowls. “What!” 

“You’ve never had makeup done, yet, right? Come on. Perfect timing.”

“No,” says Tim. He can’t. He can’t wear makeup, he knows some guys do, and yeah, everyone looks good in eyeliner and stuff, but it’s not--he’s not supposed to--it’s not right, they can wear it, but Tim can’t do that--it’s--

“Everyone deserves the chance to see themselves get a makeover,” Steph insists.

“No!” Tim nearly shouts, and the distress is getting clear in his voice. 

“If Tim doesn’t want to wear any makeup, we’re not going to force him,” Bruce says firmly. “No one has to. Makeup and all other forms of self-expression should be fun and enjoyable, not done out of obligation or pressure. That goes for everyone, male, female, and otherwise. It’s a personal choice.”

Tim tries to relax his muscles, one at a time. He’s not going to have to do it. He won’t--he can hear his mom’s words still, too fresh in his mind, from the time he asked her about concealer, and the lecture--he doesn’t want to think about that right now, his mom is dead, she’s--she was a good person, and he loves her. Loved her. Loves her? She was good, and he feels disrespectful, but Dinah and Bruce and everyone tell him he’s supposed to be able to sit with the things he remembers and allow them to be true and facts, but he doesn’t know how to hold the hurt and the love at the same time, one in each hand, and still be Tim, still think, still--he’s _working on it_. 

He’s trying. It’s hard. He just--can’t right now.

“Tim?” Bruce says quietly, and he’s squatted down in front of the chair. “Do you want to go back to your room for a while? Dick and Steph are showing Cass the basics of each type of makeup brush for now.”

Jason is hovering just behind Bruce’s shoulder, ready to go at Tim’s word. And that’s just--Robin. Tim’s Robin. Robin picked Tim, of all people, as one of his projects, and Tim’s life has changed so much, and Robin is still looking out for him, after all these months. He hasn’t stopped once. Even now that he’s not Robin. But--he is Robin. He’ll always be Robin, just like Dick will always be Robin, just like Tim will be Robin even when he retires or goes by another name eventually...but Jason is the Robin who was Robin to Tim. He’s Tim’s hero. Just as much as Batman. 

It wasn’t Batman who brought Tim home first. It wasn’t Batman who forced Tim to eat lunch and come to bother him at his house and made him play Shadow of Mordor when he was mad about stuff. It was Robin. It was Jason.

And Jason’s still here, with Bruce, still looking out for Tim. He’ll ditch the others if Tim wants to go, just so that Tim won’t be alone. Tim doesn’t even have to ask. 

Tim takes a deep breath, and then another, and looks over at where the other three are clustered in a criss-cross-applesauce huddle on the tile floor. 

“Um,” he says, softly. “No. I’ll stay.”

Bruce hmms. 

“Are you sure?” he asks. 

Tim nods. “I need to stop running from things so much. I’m okay. As long as it doesn’t have to be me, I--I want to watch.”

Bruce watches him for a moment, carefully, scanning Tim’s face. Then he smiles. “Okay,” he says, and leans forward to kiss the crown of Tim’s head as he stands up. “Then let’s get the party started.”

And, listen, okay, Tim knows he said like, _just_ last week that he was going to stop running from things? But listen. 

His brain doesn’t necessarily get with the program when he wants it to, and there’s not a whole lot he can do about that. 

Tim wakes up tired. And wet. Sometime while he slept, the feeding tube’s connector slipped out of place and the stupid pump kept going, so he hauls himself out of bed and has to ask Alfred for help stripping the sheets and his pajamas that got cold formula all over them. But it’s fine. It’s okay, that’s just a Thing, and the day isn’t ruined by a little mishap. It’ll be fine.

He eats a healthy oatmeal breakfast, even though he _wants_ Cap’n Crunch like Dick is enjoying. He can only manage about three quarters of the bowl, but that’s still better than last week, and Alfred’s cooking is pretty packed with nutrients as it is. He takes his pills. He does his exercises, and then he does _extra_ , and he’s tired, and he has a headache, and he doesn’t want to sleep but he doesn’t want to do anything else, either. Sometime today he’s supposed to get test results back from the official lab about whether he’s totally officially cleared of the virus enough to go out in society. He knows he is. Everyone knows he is. But this is the official confirmation, so. It still matters. Kinda. 

And god, everyone keeps hanging around him, every day, at least one person at a time, and he gets it, they were scared, and he normally likes their company, but he’s in a bad mood and he’s being watched and he just wants _a little bit of time_ but he can’t ask for that, he’s going to hurt someone’s feelings. So he always has a shadow, and he finally settles on one of the lounge beanbags with the Lord of the Rings. He’ll just read, he can always read Lord of the Rings, it’s the OG, he’s--

He can’t. He can’t get into it today. His headache isn’t even _bad_ but it’s there, and he’s always got someone nearby _watching_ and he doesn’t know what to do with himself--he’s just bored and he’s cranky and it’s not fair to take it out on someone else, and he doesn’t know what to try right now. He can’t exercise anymore, because the feeds that he’s running through the tube to make up for what he didn’t get overnight are stuck traveling with him at the moment, and moving around too much with a little backpack full of formula and a pump doesn’t sound like an excellent plan. Maybe if he was more used to it. But Tim’s _not,_ and he’s not _going to be,_ Leslie already said that he’ll probably be done with that in another week. He’s just got to be patient. 

Tim’s having to be patient about a lot of things, lately. Tim is getting a masters degree in patience. Tim is the most patient patient to ever patient. _Ha._

So he takes one of the throw blankets and his headphones and just pops on his _confused_ playlist and pulls the blanket over his head. 

He’s not having a great time, and he’s not really feeling better, but time is passing maybe 13% less slowly now. And he’s still cranky, but the boiling has turned to a low simmer. It’s manageable. Tim is managing. 

And then Dick tugs the blanket back, leans down with a smile, and says, “Hey, Timbo, what’re you up to down there?” 

And that’s _it._

“Why can’t everyone just leave me _alone!”_ Tim shouts, and _wow_ , his anger levels? Went from “mild simmer” to shaking-in-every-limb in a half second. Tim rolls onto his feet, headphones dangling from his phone and scraping the ground. “I don’t want to talk! I don’t want to be babysat! I’m fine! I’m just normal Tim, and I don’t want to think about the medical stuff, and I don’t want everyone around all the time, and I don’t want to be stuck in the same five places constantly, and I am so sick of _soup_ , and I want to eat food without thinking about it! Stop treating me like I’m going to break if I sit down wrong! Leave me alone!” 

Dick looks shocked, his mouth open slightly. 

Tim immediately feels guilty, somewhere in the back half of his brain, but apparently he’s not done. Because Cass sticks her head in, frowning, and Tim. Just. _Cannot_. 

“Get OUT,” he yells, and he’s still shaking, and his whole body feels like it’s flushed with waves of hot lava. “Just get out, get out get out _get out_ I don’t want to see anyone, let me out!” and he suddenly realizes that his eyes are hot, too, in a different way. It’s been a long time since he had any angry tears. 

“Tim,” Dick starts, voice careful and quiet. 

“Let me out,” Tim snaps again, something much more desperate in his voice now, and he sees Cass slip out of the doorway. “You can’t--I’m not sick anymore, you can’t make me stay in--I don’t want to talk!”

“Okay, hey, that’s fine,” Dick says, quickly, holding his palms up. “Tim. No one is forcing you to stay in here. You can leave any time you want, all right? The door is open. It’s okay. You don’t have to talk.”

“I--no, it’s not--you--” Tim half-shouts, and then chokes on whatever his mouth can’t decide to say. He looks at Dick, at the doorway, feels the blanket clenched in his sweaty hand--the piping along the edge is digging into his skin a little, and the fleece is starting to feel gross--and his phone, the headphones, his music isn’t--he snaps back to Dick when his oldest brother moves, but Dick is just stepping over to the side, closer to the wall. He’s still got his hands up. 

Tim realizes that maybe he’s acting a little extreme. But he can’t help it, he’s just…

He has to get out. 

Tim is sprinting for the door, barely remembering to grab the feeding pump backpack from the beanbag chair, and then he’s _out_ and the hallway is open but Cass is there down further, and Alfred is stepping out with her, and Tim can’t. People--

He spins on the ball of his foot and pants, heading for the greenhouse. He doesn’t run into anyone else. He thought he wanted to get out, but once he’s outside he doesn’t know what to do with himself. It’s too big, and it’s open, and he doesn’t know where to go. There’s too much. 

Too much space, too much option, too much color, too much sound, and Tim hasn’t caught his breath again before he’s stopping the pacing like a caged cheetah he’s been doing since his bare feet hit the grass and finds himself running right back into the house. 

Through the humid aisles of plants, brushing his sweaty, tacky, skin, too hot, too present, scratchy and textured, he wants them _off_ . Through the double French doors, down the hallway, the stairs, the _stairs,_ Tim really isn’t ready to take the stairs this fast, but it’s too late now. He’s gasping by the time he reaches the right floor, and it’s okay, because his whole body is shaking anyway as he hangs a left, and a left again, and there’s a blur of doorways before his feet turn automatically towards one in particular, the Narnia room. And Tim slams the door shut again behind him while he stumbles to the enormous wardrobe and practically collapses inside. He’s tipped over against the wall, heaving for air and sticky with sweat, but he’s alone and it’s--it’s—

Safe. 

Tim reaches out with a shaking arm and wraps his fingers around the edge of the wardrobe door, jerking it closed. He lets go only at the very last second. 

Then it’s just Tim and the darkness and the quiet and his crumpled nest of pillows and blankets that never leave the cherry wood sanctuary, and he jams his headphones back on and pulls the blanket over his head and tries not to be a person until the world is a little less heavy and a little more wide. 

Tim’s phone is buried under the top blanket so he doesn’t have to see the texts and calls he’s sure he’s getting. They have cameras. They know where he is. They can wait.

So he wedges himself as hard as he can in the one of the corners, kneels on the bottom of his nest and folds in half heedless of the almost-but-not-quite-healed incision, pressing his chest into his thighs and his wrists and fists against the sides of his face, and he closes his eyes in the dark and breathes. 

It’s not helping as much as he’d like.

And after a while, maybe thirty seconds, maybe thirty minutes, he rolls onto his side still curled up and tugs on the headphone cord like a fishing line, reeling his phone over until it’s in his hands. And to his surprise, there was a flood of messages--but it stopped over fifteen minutes ago. The only ones since are from Bruce. 

Tim unlocks the phone before he can second guess himself, and he ignores everything else to click Bruce’s name. There are only four new messages, short and to the point. 

_Tim. I’m sorry you’re feeling bad. The others won’t bother you until you give the okay, I talked with them._

_You don’t have to reply to these until you’re ready, but I want you to remember that you don’t need to be alone unless you want to be, and I’ll come the second you want me. But you’re also allowed to have space and time by yourself, and you’re allowed to ask for it. I know you’re not used to that. But we’ll all help you keep learning to enforce boundaries before you hit them._

_Do you want your weighted blanket, or Nova? Or any water or food? I can bring them to you and leave them right outside the wardrobe door. We don’t have to talk, and I’ll go away right afterwards if you want more privacy._

_Dick is okay, he knows what happened. You can talk to him when you’re ready. I know things are so hard right now. I’m proud of you. I love you._

Tim breathes in, and it’s damp. He can feel the pressure behind his nose, his eyes, that wants to be tears, but he’s already holding his breath, and the feeling is already fading. The only remnant is a slightly runny nose, and he goes to rub it hard with his knuckles and the next thing he knows he’s gagging slightly because he caught the tube where it comes out of his nose and ripped some of the tape off his cheek while pulling it a couple inches out of his throat. 

It’s just the last straw. He’s sticky. He’s tired. His headache has upped to a dull throb, and the guilt is crashing down now that he’s thinking more about poor Dick and how Tim just started to yell for no reason. He doesn’t want to be watched, but he also doesn’t want to be alone now that he’s alone. And he’ll probably want people gone again the second someone comes near. 

Tim doesn’t understand his brain. Or his feelings. Or like, this entire year, honestly, just...why can’t I get a break? Just two weeks. A month. Anything. 

Tim lies there for several long seconds after the phone falls out of his hand and lands face-down on one of the covers. Or a pillow. Either way. He lies still, and breathes, and tries to think through the fog that he feels like he’s in now, and finally reaches out and slides fingers around the pop socket on his phone. He hits the dictation button and waits for the prompt.

“Blanket, period,” he says. “And Nova.” He pauses for a few heartbeats longer, then adds, “And you, question mark.” He hits send.

Then he turns his head slightly and remembers the tube, and swallows once while he pushes it back where it belongs. He rolls onto his back and takes the phone in both hands, and sends one last text. 

_A strip of medical tape._

Then he turns the phone off and drops it next to his shoulder, curling up and trying to burrow into the pile of blankets and shove his face into the microfleece hard enough to forget for a moment that he’s anything but skin and lungs and the sensations they feel. 

Tim doesn’t hear the door to the room open, but he pushes himself up when he hears the sound of dog nails clicking against hardwood, and by the time Bruce and Nova step up in front of the wardrobe, Tim is just cracking one door open. Just a little. Maybe two inches. 

He looks out, up at Bruce, towering above him, and he can hear Nova’s quiet panting. Then Bruce crouches down, lowers himself onto his butt, and folds into the lotus position before ever making eye contact with Tim. He finally tips his head slightly to see better, and locks his gaze on Tim, mostly hidden in the shadows. 

“Hi, sweetheart,” he says, quietly. He doesn’t sound mad. 

But Tim still yelled at Dick, and stormed out, and inconvenienced people with worry and--

“Tim,” Bruce says. “I can hear you thinking from here.”

Tim sighs. “Hi,” he says back, just as quietly as Bruce. 

“Can I see what needs to be taped?” Bruce asks. “Or do you want to do it yourself.” He doesn’t interrupt while Tim takes entirely too long to answer, just waits patiently, eyes never leaving the cracked-open door. 

“You,” Tim says. 

“Okay.” 

Tim swings the door open, and then pops the other one, and Nova wags her tail a few times but stays put. Tim gives her a little smile. 

“Come,” he says, and Nova is hopping up to join him in a half second flat, tail thumping against one of the close walls of the wardrobe and her body filling the space so much that Tim has to scoot over to one side. “Good, girl, good dog. Down,” he tells her, and she settles into a down stay in the nest next to him, pressed up against his left leg and head perched above his lap in the perfect spot for scratches. 

“May I?” Bruce asks. 

“The tube,” Tim says, looking back over at him. “I yanked it a little.” 

Bruce pulls out a roll of medical tape, and then something else. A sticker pack?

“I figured that was it,” he says. “Can I touch you?”

Tim nods, and Bruce scoots forward until he’s on his knees, close enough to lean in and reach Tim without actually climbing into the wardrobe with him and Nova. Tim buries his hands in Nova’s neck fur and slowly scratches while Bruce’s gentle fingers tug the old tape the rest of the way off his face. 

“I know you won’t have this much longer,” he says, after a few more seconds of silence. “But I thought--I know you don’t like it, and I don’t blame you, but just in case you wanted to use them, maybe, I bought these.” He hands the little pack out to Tim.

Tim takes them and looks down, shaking the contents out into his other palm. 

“Are these stickers?” he asks. 

“Medical stickers,” Bruce says, smiling slightly. “For feeding tubes. They’re supposed to hold them in place, but I’d still put some light tape down first. They’re an option. If you want them.”

“Just because?” Tim asks.

“Just because. I thought they might make things a little...less big. More Tim, less medical industry standard.”

Tim stares for a moment, still processing through the hazy molasses of his brain. He blinks at Bruce, and then his voice almost cracks on the last word as he speaks.

“You got me dinosaurs?”

Whoops. There are the surprise tears.

“Oh, no,” Bruce says. “Tim, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Tim snaps. “You’re so stupid, I like dinosaurs, what are you--why’d you--I don’t even have this much longer, you don’t have to--”

“I want to,” Bruce says. “Tim. I wanted to. If something can make any of this even a little bit less terrible for you right now, I absolutely want to give it to you or do it. You deserve that.”

“Tape is fine,” Tim sniffs. 

“Sure it is,” Bruce agrees. “But if you want to have a little more choice, then there you go. Buddy. Can I put the new tape on really quick.”

“Yeah.” Tim only sniffs twice while he leans forward and lets Bruce’s quick fingers line the tape up and smooth it into place. Bruce leans back again and drops his hands to his lap, open and palms up. 

“Do you want one of the stickers?” he asks.

Tim looks down, sorts through them in his hand for a minute. Green t-rex, blue velociraptor, purple apatosaurus, orange pterodactyl. He flips through another time, feels Nova’s head drop down onto his leg, bump into the crease of his hip, and he smiles, suddenly, just a small one. 

“All of them,” he demands, thrusting his hand out to Bruce with one of each of the designs in it. 

Bruce raises an eyebrow even as he takes them from Tim. 

“You only have so much room on your cheek,” he warns. 

Tim shrugs. “Put two on each side?”

“Why not?” Bruce says. “Okay, hold still.”

Tim does, and Bruce carefully lines the stickers up and smooths them out, patting each one an extra time, and it feels a lot like warmth deep in Tim’s chest. 

“Done,” he says, after a minute, and pulls out his phone to hold screen with the camera app open so Tim can see. “What do you think?”

Tim inspects Bruce’s handiwork, turning his head to one side and the other and then staring at himself straight on for a moment. 

“I look like a kid,” he says. 

“You are a kid.”

“Not really.”

“You are a _kid,”_ Bruce insists. “You are fifteen years old. You are very independent, and you have experienced a lot of things that have forced you to be mature for your age, but Tim. At the end of the day, you are absolutely still a child, no matter how self-sufficient and traumatized-- _yes,_ Tim, traumatized, we’re not having this debate again. You can take it up with Dinah when you go back to therapy again, bud. No matter how traumatized and mature you are, you’re still a child, not just a minor. And you both need _and_ deserve to be allowed to live as one.”

“Making up for lost time?” Tim asks, dryly. 

“I have a bounce house rental scheduled for the week that you’re cleared to do all normal activities again,” Bruce says. 

“Oh my god, Bruce.”

“And we’re going to Universal Studios.”

“Oh my _god.”_

“Also, Jason wants you to know that he’s reading you the next Queen’s Thief book tonight as soon as you’re willing to allow people in your presence. The shipping delay finally is over and the book came this morning.”

“It--”

“I thought that would cheer you up,” Bruce says, smiling. “And now we reach the end of my messages, and my work here is done. Do you want me to go for a while?”

Tim bites his lip. “I don’t want to leave yet,” he says, slowly. “But...could you stay out here, while I’m in the wardrobe for a while?” 

“Of course,” says Bruce. He scoots back to lean against the King-size bed behind him, and picks up his phone. “I’ll work on some WE things and read. You take as long as you need to. I’ll be here when you’re ready to come out.”

Tim watches for a few seconds while Bruce goes still, hands balancing his phone just above his pulled-up knees, settled in like he really means it.

Of course he means it, Bruce always means it, you’ve seen that so many times, just accept it by now. He’s not going to leave you. 

He’s not going to leave. 

Tim watches for another beat, two, and then he takes a deep breath and pulls the doors closed again, leaving a crack open just wide enough for fresh air and a view of Bruce’s foot. 

He burrows down under the heavy weight of his blanket, presses against Nova’s warmth, and keeps his eyes on Bruce’s argyle sock while his playlist starts back up. He’ll stay here until he’s ready. He’s allowed to take time. He’s allowed to need this. It doesn’t matter if it’s weird, or if other people don’t have days like this, or--

It doesn’t matter. He’s allowed. And Bruce is staying, again, and Tim’s only as alone as he wants to be. 

Tim closes his eyes and thinks, _I think this is going to be okay._

* * *

Tim didn't think he got off, like, scott-free, or anything, but when the nightmares suddenly hit, he sure wasn't expecting it.

He wakes up screaming in the middle of the night and immediately nearly launches himself over the edge of his bed, spooking poor Nova down to the footboard. And thank god for Alfred, at his post that night in the cot by Tim, thank god for Alfred and Bruce insisting that one of them stay with Tim at night still just in case, because suddenly there are strong hands gripping his upper arms, and there's another person, there's someone alive, Tim's not--

The Joker's laughter isn't ricocheting off of the shipping containers, there's no smoggy haze of green and white filling the air and making it thick as syrup, turning things into a slow-motion movie, his family isn't--they're not--and Tim is heaving in great deep gasps of real air, clear and light and normal. He's not spinning over an edge into the icy harbor, into hot water, inhaling water and feeling his lungs struggle to expand, to cough out all the water in the way, he's breathing air, and there's a person, there's an Alfred, and it wasn't real. 

"Master Tim," Alfred is saying, he realizes. "Timothy."

"Okay," he wheezes. "Here. Okay."

"You're quite far from that," Alfred chides, but he doesn't have his usual sternness. "Breathe, my boy."

Tim breathes.

"Sorry," he gets out, maybe a half minute later. "Sorry. You were...sleeping."

"None of that. Not for this."

So Tim doesn't apologize again. 

His door opens, and he looks out from under his sweat-soaked bangs, expecting maybe Bruce, but it's Jason. Jason in his boxers and enormous XXL Gotham Knights t-shirt, lit up by moonlight, and he's got his favorite red beanie in his hands, and he's heading straight for Tim. 

"Budge over," Jason orders, and Tim does, feeling shaky and clammy and not at all like a Robin should, like a Timothy Drake should, like--

Jason lifts his arms and jams the beanie down over Tim's head. He spends several seconds fiddling around, tugging it down here, up a little more there, twisting it around till it's resting comfortably over Tim's ears and forehead without Tim having to say a word. Jason plunks one hand on Tim's head and stares him in the eyes. 

"This is shitty," he says, solemnly. "Nightmares are shitty. And you will keep having them for a while. But we can make them less bad. So we are going to lie down, and I've got my Switch, and you're gonna tell me what Queer Eye episode you want to watch, and you're going to drink the glass of water Alfred's just brought for you, and we're going to watch the episode until you fall asleep again. Get it?"

Tim slumps over when Jason tugs, and he lays his head on Jason's shoulder and the pillow at the same time. "Got it."

"Good."

They watch the episode. Tim falls asleep. Jason and Alfred do, too, sometime later. And the next morning Bruce tells Tim he's got an appointment with Dinah the day he's cleared for Zeta travel by Leslie, and one more reminder that Bruce's room and bed are always open to whoever wants them, any night they're wanted. 

Tim has four more nightmares that week. He slowly learns each family member's strategies for getting through them, and the whole gang has a night of hot chocolate and group cuddles in the lounge on the one night that Tim, Cass, and Bruce all had nightmares the same day. 

And it does suck. It is shitty. But Jason is right. They take it one night at a time, and they make it a little less bad, and Tim slowly gets through. 

* * *

For the first time since getting sick, Tim is getting to give Nova a bath himself. And he’s making a _day_ of it. 

Jason has helped him drag out the ancient inflatable kiddie pool they keep around, and the two of them spent a half hour trying to blow it up themselves before Dick came back from his jog with Ace and made fun of them for a solid five minutes before finally telling them to just use the compressor in the garage. 

“Dickhead,” Jason mutters at Dick’s retreating back, before grabbing his side of the limp plastic pool across from Tim and starting to head around the side of the manor. 

“To be fair,” Tim says, face still flushed red from his turn trying to inflate it, “we are really this dumb, today. I can’t believe both of us forgot the compressor exists.”

“Well it’s not like we ever use it!” Jason argues. “Bruce takes care of the car tires, and I dunno what else a compressor is even for.”

“Air mattresses?” Tim suggests. 

“Those come with their own pumps, don’t they?”

Tim shrugs. “Dunno. I think you’re right. I don’t know why pools don’t.”

“Trickle-down economics,” Jason says, darkly. “The root of all evil. It _is._ Tim, _stop laughing.”_

Tim cuts himself off with one last snort, and they each take turns propping the side door open with their foot so they can make it into the garage. 

“Ten bucks says we don’t manage to do this without breaking the compressor or something,” he says, as they drop the pool on an open patch of concrete. 

“Ye of little faith,” says Jason. 

They do manage, in the end. With a little help from Alfred, who’s sworn to secrecy. So things go at Wayne Manor. 

And now Tim is leading Nova into the empty pool. She’s never seen one before, so she’s partly curious, partly wary. Tim lets her sniff around it, bump it a few times, and then he steps in, and then out again.

“See?” he says, one hand firmly wrapped around the end of her short lead. “It’s fine. Just step in.”

She does, after a few more seconds, and then decides that hey, this is pretty okay, actually, and lies right down in the middle of the plastic. 

“Well,” Tim says. “Hm. Guess that works too.” 

He clips her lead to the little pole they have rigged up for bath days when it’s warm, and picks up the first brush, and gets to work. 

Cass wanders out in a sports bra and her shorts from her usual Saturday barre practice, signs a quick hello, and then promptly falls asleep on a lounger in the middle of watching him brush out Nova’s coat. 

Tim calls Bruce’s phone from his watch, one hand still dragging the brush through some particularly dense fur. 

“B,” he says. “Your daughter number one fell asleep out here. She needs sunscreen or she’s gonna regret her whole life in a few hours.” 

“I only have one daughter,” Bruce says, and Tim can already hear his chair scraping back across the floor. 

“You keep telling yourself that, B,” Tim says, grinning. “There’s a blonde-haired menace down in the cave right now who makes a strong case otherwise.”

“Stephanie,” Bruce says, “is temporary. She has a mother she wants to go home to as soon as possible.”

“I’m not arguing that,” Tim agrees. “I’m just saying. I think you’re underestimating the level of attachment.”

“On whose side?”

“Both,” Tim laughs. 

“Hn,” says Bruce. Tim bets he’s secretly smiling too. “How’s Nova doing?”  
“Chilling,” Tim replies. He steps over Nova’s back to sit on her other side and tackle the next patch of fur. “She’s tolerating me. She’s going to be real happy in a bit when I finally grab the sprayer.”

“I’ll bet.” Bruce has been on Tim’s end of more than one Nova bath day. He’s had his fair share of soakings while taking over till Tim was well. 

“Cass,” Tim prompts again. 

“I’m at the closet now,” Bruce says. “Which brand is her favorite again?” 

Tim rolls his eyes. “Sun Bum,” he reminds Bruce. “The only brand any of us like anymore. Remember?”

“Forgive me for forgetting the intricacies of sunscreen brand preferences. I definitely don’t have anything else to keep on my mind, like the strains of recreational drugs circulating in the Narrows this season or keeping track of which child’s turn it is to start the next accidental fire in one of the microwaves.”

“So rude,” Tim says. He tosses the brush over onto his mat that he’s got everything laid out on, and just starts rubbing Nova lazily for a minute. 

“Deepest apologies.”

“You were nicer when I was sick,” Tim accuses. 

Bruce laughs. “You couldn’t sass back when you were sick. Tit for tat, bud. I’ll be out in a minute. Try not to get me too wet, huh?”

And maybe. _Maybe_. Tim times it out so that Nova is shaking out her first round of water from the sprayer while Bruce walks through the sliding door to get over to Cass. 

Maybe. 

Bruce will never be able to prove it. He stops in his tracks with the sunscreen bottle in one hand, turns to Tim, and sighs. 

“Thank you,” Bruce rumbles. “I needed another bath today. It’s refreshing.”

“Unseasonably warm, today,” Tim says. He grins where he stands, hair sticking up in six directions and his swim trunks and shirt already soaked. “Great day for an outdoor shower.”

“Right,” says Bruce. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to go get your sister protected or inside, whichever results in me being supplexed less.”

“Godspeed,” Tim calls out after him. “If you want some cold water for your inevitable bruises, just swing back by. I’m happy to help.”

If Bruce were Jason, Tim’s pretty sure he would have gotten a quick little middle finger salute instead of the wave that’s thrown his way. 

And Bruce does come back, after a while, in his own swim trunks and with a stack of extra towels. He’s Tim’s spare hands, stepping in to help when Tim starts hitting a wall of fatigue. He’s recovered enough for normal activity, sure, but every day is a little different, and his stamina is still not quite up to par. And Nova is a very...energetic bathee. 

“I’ve got it,” Bruce says gently, when Tim finally steps back entirely and sits down with a thunk on the bottom of the pool by the open drain hole. “Hey. Go sit on one of the actual chairs. I’ll finish blowing her dry.”

“But I’m supposed to--”

“You’re not supposed to do anything,” Bruce says. “This isn’t a test. You’ve been at this for over an hour. Let me finish up.”

Tim grumbles, but he goes and sits down. He leans back in one of the patio chairs, head resting against the top of the cushion, and closes his eyes while he bounces slightly on the springs. His toes just barely brush the sun-warmed stone each time the front of the chair dips. 

He listens to the sound of the air blower as Bruce dries Nova, and to the birds, and to the sound of a few cicadas starting to shout at the late-afternoon sky, and to the sound of a pump-action being--

Tim whips around with his mouth open, just in time to see Dick and Jason leaning out from around a bush with twin shit-eating grins on their faces in the half-second before a blast of icy water hits him right in the face. 

He’s spluttering and rubbing water out of his eyes with a cry of delighted outrage, and by the time he’s got his bearings back, Bruce has unclipped Nova and transferred her to the extra-long lead bolted down in the grass, and someone’s dropped another water gun at his feet. 

“Two minutes to get in position,” Jason crows, from where he’s rapidly dancing away towards the tree line. “Then all’s fair in love and war.”

“Bruce!” Tim half-laughs, half-yells. “You were in on this the whole time!” 

“Maybe,” Bruce grins. “You don’t have to if you’re too tired. Or you can join later.” 

“No,” Tim says, quickly. He hops up from the chair, searching for his sneakers. “No, I want to play, I’m okay, I can go a little longer. I’ll just sleep more tonight. I was wondering about the extra towels!”

“We’ve been waiting for days,” Dick calls, already on the first floor awning and still heading up. “Fair warning, we have no idea where Alfred’s decided to camp out this time. And the girls possibly have an alliance? Unclear.”

“Good to know,” Tim says. He throws Dick a salute. “Thanks for the tips.”

“ONE MINUTE,” Jason hollers from somewhere within the trees, and Tim snaps into motion.

“Thanks Bruce,” he calls over his shoulder, breathlessly, as he and Bruce both pump their guns, running in opposite directions. “Bye Bruce, good luck Bruce, LOVE YOU BRUCE.”

Tim jogs over the grass with his damp feet in his sneakers, feeling every woven fiber of the interior, rubbing against the sides, and he’s got the fresh air rushing past with the scent of the very end of summer and very beginning of fall carried in a light breeze, and he may have a dad missing in action, and he may be totally not ready to face any of the many, many confusing feelings about his mom’s death right now. But he’s _alive_ , and he’s more or less well after a long, long several weeks, and he may be tired, and he’s nowhere near fully healed in like. Any possible meaning of the word. He knows he’s got a long way to go. He has a lot to process. He has a lot of rough days coming down the road, apparently, if he believes Bruce and Dinah and Jason. Which he does.

But Tim is alive. He has that time. Or, he will. And he’s got a whole entire family every step of the way, a family that won’t leave and that won’t let him go, and he’s got goals he means to hit, and school to sort out, and a lot of things on a list that Jason isn’t going to let him not do, probably as soon as possible. He’s got a city to help heal. He’s got a family at his back.

And this evening, he’s got a full-on war game to play, so help him god, and he’s going to take down at least one sibling if it takes all night. Maybe even Bruce, if he gets lucky. If I team up with Cass and Steph, he thinks. Then maybe…

Tim ducks behind one of the decorative arbors and gives himself a minute to catch his breath, check his heart rate, and make sure everything’s okay. He hears the sounds of someone shrieking, and a war cry that sounds a lot like Cass, and there’s a warm breeze and a loaded water gun and legs underneath him that are strong enough to let him play, when he didn’t even expect to live.

And Tim finally, finally, believes that in the end, Batman and Robin are always right. They’re always there. They’ve had him, every time, ever since they met. They’ve had him. And he thinks they're going to have him for a whole lot more times to come.

* * *

That night, when he has a nightmare, he wakes up with his heart pounding and every sense on high alert, and he doesn't move, or cry out, but he lies there in the dark for several minutes until he gathers up enough courage to move one hand. And then a leg. And then he rolls over, and pauses, until finally he's able to perch on the edge of the bed, and quietly asks Nova for help. 

His fingers hook under her collar, sink into her fur, and he keeps his hand on her every infinite step of the way across his room, down the hall, and to Bruce's door. 

He stands still there for another eternity until Nova shakes herself once and reminds him that time is a thing that is passing, and Tim takes a breath. He turns the knob by himself for the first time, nudges the door open. It whispers almost silently across the carpet, and Tim barely makes it two steps in before the lump on the enormous bed stirs. He almost swears he can hear a sleepy snort. 

Tim freezes with the door still half-open, backlit by one of the wall lights in the hallway. Then Bruce's bedhead and puffy eyes pop out from the middle of the heap of blankets, and he blinks once, squinting towards the door.

"Tim?" he rumbles, voice as warm as it is sleep-scratchy. "That you? Hi, sweetheart."

Tim shifts his weight to his other foot, then back. He doesn't know how to ask. He doesn't know how to do this. He never did before. Honestly, he feels like he shouldn't even be here now, because he's fifteen, and he's already calming down, and really, it's fine, he shouldn't be bothering Bruce in the middle of the night when it's not an emergency. He doesn't know how to _do this_. 

Bruce sits up all the way and smiles for a second. "You picked a good night. The only other one here is Cassie, and she always sleeps under the bed. You've got your pick of mattress spots."

Tim swallows, and his hand tightens around Nova's collar. Is Bruce giving him permission?

"Tim," Bruce says, quietly. "Come on. Go on and shut the door behind you, and climb on up. You can bring Nova with you if you want, I don't mind."

Tears fill Tim's eyes, hot and tight and stinging more than usual, or maybe that's just his imagination. He shuts to door on autopilot and slowly heads for the bed, while Bruce is shifting blankets around to make a clear path. He reaches out a hand and tugs Tim up, helping him crawl towards the center of the mattress, and then Tim is lying down with Nova somewhere up towards the head of the bed, and Bruce is tugging him close with one arm, and Tim's curled against him. Bruce is so solid, and warm, just like he always is in and out of the suit. Batman is always solid like this. He's always safe.

Bruce tugs just the right amount of covers over Tim, and then a little extra over himself, and settles into his own spot with a quiet little sigh. Tim glances up, and Bruce's eyes are already closed. He swallows, and slowly opens his mouth. 

"Is this okay?" Tim whispers. "Are you sure?"

Bruce cracks one sleepy eye open, just partway, the one not smushed into a pillow at the moment, and then closes it again. "Tim," he murmurs, low and relaxed. "I'm sure. You're wanted here. You are--" he yawns and cuts himself off for a moment, then continues. "Always allowed."

And Tim...he decides, one more time, to trust. 

"Okay," he whispers back, and he closes his eyes too. Shuffles around a little, settling closer to Bruce, listening to his breathing. He's not used to this, and it's weird, and a little bit terrifying, and apparently Cass is somewhere underneath them right now, completely hidden, which in any other family would be at least slightly alarming. But this his his home now. It's his family. And it's a bit different, and a little crazy, and everyone's got a little bit of broken inside them, for sure. But it's real. And Tim loves it. And he's choosing to trust, and he's choosing to stay, and if Batman chose him, over and over and over, all this time, as many times as it's taken, Tim thinks: I choose him back. 

He falls asleep in minutes, and when he wakes up less than an hour later from another bad dream, Bruce is already there, shushing him in a tired voice, one hand running through his hair, and he doesn't let go.

Tim goes back to sleep, and his last thought is, _Batman's here. Bruce is here. Still here._

_It's going to be okay._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HOPE YOU LIKED IT, PLEASE PLEASE HYDRATE. Eat something if you haven't in the last 3-6 hours--even just one oreo or a handful of chips is something, and I'm proud of you. Take any meds you need!!! You're going to be just fine. Love you all. <3
> 
> I've got at least six oneshots in the works addressing various characters and topics, and I have plans for the Damian-joins-the-family fic bouncing around, so stay tuned! More to come. 
> 
> As always, you can find me over at @goldkirk on tumblr any time! Feel free to come check out my blog or yell at me or yell with me, all of those things are fine haha.


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